Euphoria
by Evie McFarland
Summary: The team believes that Reid is in danger. Reid disagrees. Abduction, violence, and poetry ensue. (Also drugs. Lots of drugs.)
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: **_**The following story may contain graphic scenes of torture and violence, character death, mature themes, profane language, lampshade hanging, absurd situations, excessive sarcasm, and badly written poetry. Read at your own risk.**_

_"Man makes plans…and God laughs." – Michael Chabon_

The phone was ringing.

Reid wanted to cry.

Thirty-seven minutes. That was how long he'd been allowed to sleep. _Thirty. Seven. Minutes._

It rang again.

Letting out a moan, he reached out for the phone blindly, knocking it off of the bed in the process. Swearing, he groped around on the floor, eventually making contact with a smooth, plastic object. He raised it to his ear—realized it was the television remote—then threw it at the wall and collapsed onto his bed again.

The phone rang a third time.

"_Fine!" _Reid shouted, anger eventually giving him the motivation to push himself out of his bed. He crawled around on the floor for several moments before finally finding his phone—which had _apparently _had the audacity to bounce underneath the bed stand—and answered it just before it went to voicemail.

"Rise and shine, wunderkind!" Garcia's voice chorused from the other end of the phone.

"Someone had better be dying," he mumbled.

There was a pause. "Well, _you've_ got an uncharacteristically dark sense of humor this morning," Garcia replied eventually.

"I'm tired."

"Ran out of coffee?"

"You guessed it." Reid pushed himself to his feet and slowly made his way into the bathroom, allowing a large yawn to escape his lips.

"Well, people _are _dying, as a matter of fact."

"That so?" Reid asked. "Where?"

"Iowa."

"There are _people_ in _Iowa_?" Reid asked mildly, turning on the shower.

"You'd better get caffeinated soon, mister, because I don't think Morgan will appreciate this snarkiness the whole plane ride in. He didn't sound much happier than you are."

"Copy that," Reid said, hanging up the phone.

**O**

By the time Reid arrived at Quantico, the team was sitting around the round table. Hotch and Rossi were having a muted conversation, JJ was on her phone, and Morgan appeared to have fallen asleep in his chair.

Reid frowned, confused by the lack of activity. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are we going to leave soon?"

"No such luck," Blake said, entering the room. "Garcia got the call a couple minutes ago. The unsub turned himself in."

Reid blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, something about a thirty-year unsub killing local prostitutes to avenge the spirit of his dead mother," Blake said, shrugging. "Then he found out she was still alive. So they don't need us anymore."

"Oh," Reid said, resisting the urge to hurl his cup of coffee at the opposite wall. "That sounds…weird."

"Apparently it was," Blake agreed. "I wish every case was that easy."

Reid sighed. Any excitement he might have felt at the detainment of a serial killer was significantly dampened by the fact that he was at work before the sun had even risen. "Why is everyone still here?"

"Strauss wants to talk to us," Hotch said, breaking his conversation with Rossi to address Reid.

Reid blinked. "Oh," he said. "Why?"

Hotch didn't answer—instead, his eyes lingered on Reid for several more seconds before returning to the conversation with Rossi. Reid frowned, then cast a confused look at Blake. She shrugged.

He sat down next to Morgan, prodding him in the side to wake him up, eliciting a surprised shout from the older man.

"_Not cool, _pretty boy," Morgan growled, massaging his arm.

"Why does Strauss want to talk to us?" he asked.

Morgan blinked. "Strauss wants to talk to us?" he asked. "Is it about the case?"

Reid raised his eyebrows. "We don't have a case anymore."

"Oh," Morgan muttered. "It's over already?"

"Ah-_ha_!" Both Reid and Morgan whipped their heads around, disoriented, as a very colorful looking Garcia flounced into the room holding a mug of tea in one hand and a large handbag in the other. "Ten dollars, JJ. _Ten. Dollars._"

JJ glanced up from her phone, rolling her eyes. "The bet is hardly valid anymore," she said. "Spence messed it up."

"What?" Morgan asked, looking very confused.

"We wanted to see how long you'd sleep," JJ explained. "I bet Garcia you'd be out for over thirty minutes."

"And it has only been _nine _minutes," Garcia said.

"Because _Spence _woke him up," JJ said, laughing.

"And _how, _exactly, did he wake him up?"

Both women turned to Reid with expectant eyes.

"Um," Reid said, not fully paying attention. "I just kind of poked him."

"See?" JJ said. "Poking _clearly_ nullifies any monetary wagers."

"Well, I don't know," Morgan said, coming to Garcia's defense. "I wasn't sleeping very deeply. It wouldn't have taken much to wake me up."

"He's just _saying_ that because he doesn't want to admit that he would have _slept the day away_, case or no case, if we'd let him—"

"Reid," Garcia said, interrupting JJ, "How _hard_ did you poke him?"

Reid blinked. "What?"

"On a scale of one to ten, how hard, would you say, did you poke Derek?"

Reid stared at Garcia, his irritation growing. "I don't remember," he said.

"Ridiculous," JJ scoffed. "You remember everything. Please calculate the exact degree to which you poked Morgan at approximately five forty-six this morning, Eastern time—"

"There isn't an objective scale for measuring poking," Reid snapped.

Garcia sighed. "Alright," she said. "Fair enough. Could you recreate the poking, please?"

Reid blinked. "What?" he snapped, glancing at Morgan for help—Morgan however, looked like he was about to fall back to sleep any moment.

"Please poke Derek again, in the exact same manner as you did at five forty-six this morning, Eastern time, so that we will be able to assess whether or not the poke was sufficient enough to rouse Derek from his sleep and to ultimately determine that JJ owes me ten dollars, further proving that I have a deep and intimate understanding of Derek's sleep patterns as such is matched by no—"

"It's good to see you're all getting a lot of work done." Everyone's head snapped up simultaneously as Strauss' voice sounded from the doorway. Blake cast her a slightly disdainful look before inching out of the doorway and sliding in the other seat next to Reid.

"Ma'am," Garcia said, "We were just—"

"It's alright," Strauss said, smiling slightly. "I do have a sense of humor _sometimes, _you know. And I realize that it's frustrating to get called from your beds at five in the morning only to find your job has been done for you."

Everyone simply stared at Strauss, as if wondering whether she had a point or was simply trying to make their morning even more annoying than it already was.

She sighed. "There was a note sent to Quantico anonymously late last night," she said. "I mentioned it to Agent Hotchner, earlier—I'd like you all to take a look." With a quick glance at Reid—which was so short, he wondered if he had only imagined it—she exited the room, leaving an envelope behind on the table.

Hotch reached forward, opened the envelope, and surveyed the letter. After a moment, he frowned.

"It's a poem," he muttered, raising his eyebrows.

"A what?" Morgan asked, still sounding half-asleep. "The threatening message is a poem?"

Hotch shook his head. "It _looks_ like a poem," he muttered. "Yep," he muttered, smiling slightly after a few more seconds of silence. "Definitely a poem."

"Could you _read _it?" JJ asked, sounding impatient. Hotch cleared his throat and started to read.

"'_It's no surprise, I must agree,  
If you do not remember me—  
It's been a week or month since then  
(I'm rather bad with dates, my friend.)  
I saw you last so long ago  
I feared you would forget—and so  
I thought I'd write a limerick  
(Just to ensure my words would stick)  
Perhaps a quatrain, or haiku—  
But what, my friend, could impress you?  
If I could delve into your mind—  
I say, what joyous things I'd find!  
But so you do not misconstrue  
I must convey my thoughts to you.  
I wondered once, how precious minds  
Are often rare, so hard to find.  
And so I wondered (sure enough)  
If you were made of different stuff—  
Perhaps the coils of your brain  
Were somehow better, not the same  
As those of us mere mortal men.  
If so, what was contained in them?  
I know that we could get along,  
And tell me, was it really wrong  
To look at you, and wonder "how?"  
(As far as science would allow)  
To wonder how your blood would race  
In tributaries, down your face?  
And would it look the same as mine?  
(Perhaps more tragic—more divine?)_  
_Now please, my friend—don't be alarmed!  
I do not wish you any harm.  
I wish to see inside your head  
(Which would be hard, if you were dead!)  
I shall not let you hide away.  
Don't be afraid—come out and play!  
And now you see—no need to fear!  
I think our time is drawing near.  
I've always been so very shy  
But we must meet before you die.  
So don't be scared—it's not the end!  
I simply want to be your friend.'"_

There was a brief moment of silence after Hotch stopped reading the poem. "Well, he's not Edgar Allan Poe, so we know that much," Reid muttered sleepily—his eyes had slowly drifted closed as Hotch had read the poem, and he began to wonder whether or not he could fall asleep right then and there. As the silence stretched on, however, he was forced to look up.

"What?" he demanded, once he realized they were all staring at him.

There was a long silence. "Well, Reid," JJ began. "It _does _kind of sound…"

"What?" Reid demanded. "Sound like what?"

"Like he's talking to you," Hotch said.

Reid blinked. "I don't see where you're getting that from," he said.

Hotch raised his eyebrows and began to read the poem again. Irritated, Reid reached forward and snatched the poem from him, unwilling to spend another minute listening to something he could read in five seconds.

"Are you guys really so insecure," Reid muttered, "That you think I'm the only one here who has a 'great mind?'" He raised his eyebrows, glancing around at the team. "There's no indication that this is intended for me. It wasn't even sent _to the BAU. _It was just sent to Quantico. It could be meant for anybody that works here. Hotch, or Garcia, or Strauss, or _Anderson, _or any other person who—"

"And yet," Hotch interrupted. "Despite her incredibly high opinion of herself, _Strauss _did _not _assume the message was for her—nor did she assume it was intended for me, or Morgan, or JJ, or Anderson, or anyone else at Quantico. Because nobody else has an IQ of 187, and eidetic memory and—"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Reid said. "_Strauss _knows that. But _this _person doesn't know that."

They all stared at him.

"It's _true!"_

"Okay, sure," Morgan said, speaking up for the first time. "But if it was meant for _anyone, _Reid..."

"I know what this is _really _about," Reid snapped. "You all just think I have this weird proclivity towards being stalked and kidnapped, and so you just jump to conclusions without considering all the evidence first."

"In all fairness, Reid," Hotch said carefully, "You _do _have a bit of a history of—"

"No," Reid snapped, pushing himself to his feet. "We didn't even _have _a case, did we?" he demanded, glancing back and forth from Hotch to Blake. "_You _just wanted to get me in here as soon as possible!"

"You have no evidence to support that," Hotch muttered. "It doesn't matter—you're here now. And we _need _to discuss the—"

"No," Reid snapped. "This is _unbelievably _stupid."

"All I'm saying, Reid, is that we need to act with an abundance of caution until we've got this figured out. If you could just take a closer look at the—"

"_No," _Reid repeated, gritting his teeth. "This is ridiculous. Unless this is an _actual _case that she wants us to work on—you know, one where an _actual crime _has been committed—I'm going to go finish my paperwork." With that, he turned his back on his team and stormed out of the room.

"Spence!" JJ called after him, once she saw that he was truly leaving. "That's fine, but just—you know—re-read the poem over in your head a couple times,—or….or whatever it is that you do—just really let it _soak in,_ you know—"

"Right, got it!" Reid shouted sarcastically, raising his hand in farewell. "Thanks a lot, everybody!" Once he'd made it to his desk, however, he realized he had forgotten his coffee in the conference room—and so, for the next several minutes, he simply sat in his chair, torn between his desire for coffee and his immense reluctance to go back and face his team again, all the while the obnoxious lyrics of the poem bounced around in his head.

"Goddamnit," he muttered eventually, getting up to make himself coffee in the break room. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it wasn't even six o'clock yet.

It was going to be a long day.

**O**

"Hey, Spence. Do you want to come over to dinner tonight? Henry hasn't seen you in awhile."

Reid swiveled around in his chair, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, and surveyed JJ's innocent face suspiciously.

"Why?"

JJ laughed. "Does there suddenly need to be an ulterior motive to invite you over to my house?"

"No," Reid said. "But there is."

JJ frowned. "Fine," she said. "So don't come over. Go home and get murdered by an insane poetry fanatic. _See if I care._"

Reid couldn't help but laugh. "Alright," he said eventually. "I'll come. But I swear to God, if you bring it up _one more time…"_

JJ laughed, reached forward to mess up his hair, then darted out of the way as he tried to push her off. "Great, thanks!" he shouted, pushing his hair out of his eyes as she walked across the bullpen towards her office. "Excellent, JJ! That really made me want to spend more time with you!"

She waved to him cheerily, before turning around and shutting the door to her office.

**O**

"I don't _like _it!"

"You can't _know _that, Henry," JJ admonished her son. "You haven't _tried _it yet!"

Henry brought his face several inches closer to the plate before recoiling with a look of disgust. "It looks like horse guts."

JJ rolled her eyes. "It looks nothing _like _horse guts, Henry," she said. "It's _salmon._"

"No," Henry snapped, growing more stubborn by the minute. "I hate salmon. Salmon is the _worst._"

"But you haven't even _tried it—_"

"JJ," Will interjected in a hushed voice, so that the younger child couldn't hear, "You're not going to get a four year old to eat salmon."

"I just want him to _try _it," JJ insisted irritably.

"You know, Henry," Reid said, "I used to eat salmon _all the time _when I was a kid."

Henry surveyed him with a look of suspicion.

"It's true," Reid said. "It's got lots of vitamins in it. Omega-3 fatty acids, vitamin A and B, folate—"

"NO SALMON!" Henry shrieked suddenly, lashing out without warning and knocking the pot of mashed potatoes off the edge of the table and onto Will's foot.

"Damn it!" Will hissed, gritting his teeth in pain as he bent to pick up the pot.

"_Will!" _JJ snapped, shooting him a severe look.

"What?" Will asked. "_He's _the one who tried to amputate my foot."

Henry started giggling, but was stopped short after a stern look from JJ, lowering his eyes to his plate and muttering an apology to his father.

"Anyways," JJ said, as Will was busy cleaning the mashed potatoes off of the floor, "As I was saying, Reid—I think you should stay the night. Henry hasn't had been seeing you nearly enough lately."

Reid let out a sigh as he twirled his salad around on his fork. "Could we _not _start with that again?"

"What?" JJ asked. "Don't you want to spend time with your godson?"

Reid shot her a dark look. "Using children as a tool for manipulation," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Really, JJ. I thought you were better than this."

JJ leaned across the table. "Excuse me for not wanting you killed," she hissed.

"Is Uncle Spencer in danger?" Henry piped up, his eyes wide.

"No," JJ and Reid said simultaneously.

Reid shot JJ a knowing look. "You see?" he said. "We're in agreement."

JJ looked on the verge of retaliating when she noticed that Henry had begun to dump forkloads of the salmon onto the floor. "Stop it, Henry!" she snapped. "If you don't eat your salmon, you're not getting any ice cream after dinner!"

Henry slammed the fork down on the table. "Damn it!" he shouted.

"_Henry!" _JJ cried. "I told you to _never _use that—"

"DAMN IT! I _HATE_ SALMON!" Henry shouted again, smacking his hand over and over on the table. "DAMN THAT SALMON! _DAMN THAT SALMON!"_

"You see what you've done?" JJ demanded of Will, who was still on his hands and knees cleaning up the potatoes. "I _told _you not to swear in front of him!"

"I'm a little busy!" Will shouted from the ground.

"Actually," Reid said, amid the shouting, "That type of rhyming capability in a four-year-old indicates advanced linguistic skills. If I were you, I'd be pleased."

"DAMN THAT SALMON!" Henry shouted again and, with a grin, hurled the entire plate at the wall—however, it fell slightly short of its intended target, with the majority ending up on Will's head.

"_Henry!" _JJ snapped again. "What has gotten _into _you?"

"Maybe it's all that sugar you gave him earlier!" Will shouted, wiping mashed potatoes off of his neck.

"Actually," Reid said. "Recent studies contradict the notion that sugar causes hyperactivity in children. In fact—"

"_Not now_, Reid!" JJ said, lifting a screaming Henry from his chair and carrying him upstairs. Reid stood there somewhat awkwardly as the screams of _"DAMN THAT SALMON!" _echoed down the staircase.

"Need any help?" he asked Will. Will stood up with a sigh, still brushing pieces of salmon out of his hair.

"M'alright," he said. "Don't know what's up with Henry, though. It's that JJ's on edge, I think. He can tell. It upsets him."

Reid felt a combination of guilt and irritation building up in his stomach. "She doesn't need to be worried," he said. "The whole team is acting ridiculous."

"I dunno," Will muttered, taking a seat at the table again. "Aren't you a _bit _worried?"

"No," Reid insisted stubbornly. "They don't even know that it was _for _me. They're just assuming that it is, because..." he trailed off."They're all just overprotective of me," he continued. "They still think of me as 'some kid.' Well, I'm thirty years old—"

"You oughtta be careful," Will interjected, "That you're not so busy being defensive that you stop using your head."

"What I'm _saying,_" Reid muttered, "Is that I can look after myself."

"Oh, really?" This voice came from behind him—he turned around to see JJ standing there. "Henry's in his room," she said, by way of explanation.

"I see," Will said.

She turned again to Reid. "Let take a look back," she said. "There was the whole Tobias Hankel thing—which goes without saying—"

"_You _were there, too," Reid muttered.

"But then there was the anthrax incident—"

"I found the cure eventually," Reid hissed.

"And that time during the Fisher King case where you got yourself set on fire—"

"It was only my _pants_—

"And that other time when you decided to leave your bulletproof vest behind and wander into the house where the unsub was keeping the victim hostage, _without telling anyone, _all because _you _had a headache—

"It was a _migraine_!" Reid shouted bitterly.

"And don't make me mention the last case where you willingly approached the unsub, _blindfolded,_ and tried to sacrifice _yourself _to save a girl you'd never even _seen _before—"

"_Hey!"_ Reid shouted, furious that JJ was willing to bring Maeve into this. "Alright! _I get it!_ I work for the _FBI_—there are _some _risks involved, _in case you haven't noticed. _It's not like _you've _never been in danger."

"No, Reid," JJ said. "I haven't. Not as much as you have. Because you—well, don't take this as a _criticism, _Reid, but you're not always the most…_aware._"

Reid glared at JJ without speaking.

"What I mean," she said, "Is that you've got this uncanny ability to get yourself into…into _situations…_that most people would have been able to avoid. And I'm sure that it's only because you're thinking of something really important—like the theory of relativity or postmodernism or Moby Dick—but you've got your head in the clouds a lot of times, Spence, and you don't really seem to have the greatest common sense, and if you _are_ being targeted by an unsub you can't just wander around and—"

"I think I have to go," Reid snapped, turning his back on JJ and heading for the door. He didn't care whether or not her intentions were pure—he was sick and tired of everyone treating him like he was helpless.

"Wait!" JJ shouted, grabbing onto Reid's arm as he was getting his coat. "Please, Spence. Just think about this. Stay for awhile, and—"

"I'm all set," he muttered. "Thanks for dinner. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"But, Spence—look, I'm _sorry _if I offended you, but you've got to stop being unreasonable about this. _Spence!_" But Reid had already gotten into his car and backed out of the driveway as the last of JJ's protests faded away. As he drove on, he felt guiltier and guiltier, but was too proud to turn around and go back.

He didn't feel like driving back to his apartment—so, he went down to the library. He wandered around for some time, gazing at the titles of the books on his shelves and trying to determine whether or not he had already read them.

"Not sure why you come to the library so often, Dr. Reid," said a voice from behind him—he turned around and recognized Ms. Wilde—a stout, elderly librarian with a stern face but kind eyes. "You've got an entire library inside your head, after all."

Reid smiled. "I like the way books smell," he said.

She laughed. "So do I, Dr. Reid," she said. She surveyed him for several moments, before remarking, "You look upset. Is everything alright?"

He scratched his head. "Just an argument with a friend," he admitted.

"A lady-friend?" Ms. Wilde asked, raising her eyebrows knowingly.

Reid laughed. "Not exactly," he said. "She's married."

"Well, that's a shame," Ms. Wilde said, sighing.

He laughed again. "That's not what we were arguing about."

"Well, about _what, _then?" she asked.

Reid shrugged. "Well…I don't know," he said. "Do you think I'm…absentminded?" He was immediately struck by the ridiculousness of the query, especially considering who it was addressed to, and began to feel slightly stupid.

"I wouldn't know, dear," Ms. Wilde said. "Everyone's absentminded in a library. Books will do that to you."

"Right," Reid muttered. He stayed in the library until it closed at nine-o'clock—after that, he drove aimlessly around the city, unable to quell the building sense of agitation in his stomach. Torn by a desire to apologize to JJ and punch her in the face, he parked outside a local coffee shop and went in.

"We're closing at ten," shouted the teenager working the register.

"Right," Reid muttered, checking his watch. "Well, um—can I have a coffee with sugar and milk?"

"I don't know, _can _you?" smirked the teenager. Reid folded his arms and glared. "Guess you can," the boy muttered, turning around to grab the cup. "People have _no _sense of humor anymore. _Sheesh._"

"Excuse me for not appreciating your innovative comedic brilliance," Reid muttered under his breath. The teenager gave him a dirty look as he handed him his coffee.

"Three-fifty," he said. Reid handed him four dollars and walked out of the store, loitering outside on the sidewalk for several moments. He couldn't tell whether his bad mood stemmed from his confrontation with JJ, or the reason behind it—or, worst of all, a legitimate fear that they were right.

Finally, as the time approached eleven o'clock, Reid was forced to return to his apartment, convinced that no amount of driving around aimlessly would take his mind off his present situation. As he opened his apartment door, however, a small, folded piece of paper fell out of the doorway and onto his head. Frowning, he unfolded the piece of paper and scanned the words quickly.

_I thought I'd wait till you got home  
To see if you had read my poem.  
And yet, alas! You are not here.  
So here's a game of hate and fear._

"Goddamn it," Reid hissed, whipping around and slamming the door behind him. He wasn't sure whether he was more frightened that he truly _was _being stalked or furious that his team had been right. Hands shaking, he whipped out his phone and dialed Hotch's number.

"Reid," Hotch said, before he'd had a chance to speak, "I was just about to call you."

"Hotch," Reid began.

"Listen, Reid," Hotch interrupted, his voice sounding frightened and urgent. "We were wrong. Alright? I'm sorry."

Reid frowned. "But, Hotch—"

"I didn't expect this to happen," Hotch muttered. "It doesn't make any sense. The victimization makes no sense in terms of either of the poems..."

Reid paused for a second, frowning. "Wait," he said. "What are you talking about?"

There was a brief silence. "I thought you knew," Hotch said, after a moment.

"Knew _what?_" Reid demanded.

There was a tense pause. "It's JJ," he said. "She's disappeared."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to anyone who left a review! Although I don't usually respond to reviews unless there's a question, I **_**really **_**appreciate them, and I love reading your thoughts/comments/opinions. (So…thanks to all you reviewers for being awesome human beings!) I have been wicked busy lately (what with work/school/sleeping/television/laziness/adhd) but I will try to post a chapter by next Sunday or Monday if I can.**

**THANKS FOR READING!**

_"This world is a comedy to those who think; and a tragedy to those who feel." - Horace Walpole_

"You know, pretty boy, you're really starting to depress me."

Reid raised his eyes very slowly. "I thought you were getting lunch," he said.

Morgan turned around and sat beside him on the bench. "I did," he said. "Brought you a sandwich. Tuna-fish. You like tuna fish, right?"

Reid sighed.

"I see," Morgan said. "You're too depressed to like tuna fish. Believe it or not, Reid, starvation actually _can _have a negative effect on your mood."

Reid snatched the sandwich from Morgan's hands and stared at it angrily for several moments.

"We should be looking for JJ," he muttered.

"We _are_," Morgan said.

Reid continued to stare blankly at the sandwich. He didn't answer.

"Well, she's not in that sandwich," Morgan said. "I promise. I watched the guy make it and everything."

Reid shot him an annoyed look. "Cracking jokes is not going to make me feel better," he snapped.

Morgan put his arm over his friend's shoulder. "I know," he said. "But I hate to see you like this. You haven't smiled in a day in a half."

Reid sighed. He placed the sandwich on the bench next to him. "It's my fault she's missing," he muttered.

"Really?" Morgan asked. "So _you're _the one who abducted her? That would have been really great information a few hours ago, kid."

Reid shot him a glare.

"Right, right, no more jokes," Morgan said, holding up his hands defensively. "Don't punch me. Sorry."

"I shouldn't have left," Reid muttered. "If I'd only stayed, like she'd asked me…"

"Will was there," Morgan said.

"He was asleep," Reid retorted.

"And I'm sure _you _would've been keeping watch all night long."

"Not making me feel any better."

Morgan sighed. "Look, Reid," he said. "This guy managed to abduct a _trained FBI agent _from her _own home _without any signs of forced entry and without leaving any trace. Will wouldn't have even known she was missing until the next morning if he hadn't gone downstairs looking for her."

Reid didn't answer.

"This isn't about whether you were there or not, is it?" Morgan asked. "It's about the note he left at your apartment."

Reid still didn't answer.

"If this guy _is _looking for you, Reid," Morgan said, "Then he probably won't hurt her. He'll use her to try and bargain with us."

"And when he doesn't get what he wants, he kill her because she's disposable," Reid muttered. "And the last time I ever saw her…" he trailed off, picked up the sandwich, then put it down again. "The last time I ever saw her, we were fighting because _she _wanted to protect _me._" He rolled his eyes. "Well, at least my misery is ironic."

"Reid—"

"I'm just a little sick of it, you know?" he said, getting to his feet. "It's like everyone I've ever remotely cared about gets killed or goes missing or goes insane or leaves or…" he broke off. "I sound like an idiot," he muttered, tossing the sandwich in the trashcan as he walked away.

"_Reid!" _

Reid sighed, turning around, as Morgan jogged to keep up. He had hoped his friend would have been sufficiently offended by the sandwich thing so as to leave him alone—but apparently not.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said. "You've got shitty luck, kid. But I'm here for you. And so is the team."

"Thanks," Reid muttered, not feeling quite as thankful as he figured he should.

"However," Morgan said, "You're the smartest one here. We need your help, too, you know." Then he reached into his bag and pulled out another sandwich. "And nobody wants to deal with you when you're cranky."

Reid stared at him. "How many have you got in there?" he asked.

Morgan sighed. "Sometimes I get hungry before dinner, alright?" he said. "Can we _go_?"

Reid rolled his eyes, cracked a very small smile for the first time in two days, then followed his friend down the hall.

**O**

_She paced back and forth furiously. She desperately wanted to call him, but she knew she had to wait until he cooled off…_

"_JJ?"_

_She sighed as she heard her husband's voice. She didn't turn around to look at him._

"_Henry asleep?" she asked._

"_Finally."_

_She turned around and smiled. "Thanks," she said. _

"_It was nothing." Will smiled and stepped closer, putting his hand around her waist in a gesture of comfort. "You alright?"_

_JJ sighed. "I shouldn't have brought up Maeve," she muttered. "He's still upset about that." _

"_He'll forgive you," Will said._

_She shrugged. "I know. That's not what I'm worried about."_

_Will smiled at her. "He does have a point, you know," he said. "You _do _treat him like a kid."_

_JJ turned and glared at him. "Did you _hear _how many times he's almost died? _Henry_ couldn't get in as much trouble with a lighter and a pressure cooker."_

"_Yes," Will said solemnly. "Yes, he could."_

_JJ rolled her eyes and turned away._

"_I'm going upstairs," Will said. "You coming?"_

_JJ ran her hand through her hair. "In a bit," she answered._

_She lingered in the living room for an hour or so, reading and checking her phone anxiously. She desperately wanted to talk to Spence, but wanted to give him his space as well. Eventually, she let out a groan, took her phone out, and started to dial his number._

_Then she heard a soft knock on the door. _

_She dropped the phone on the couch and went to the door—however, the surge of hope was instantly deflated when she realized that it was not Reid at the door. Instead, it was a small, teenage girl, who kept checking her phone and looking around nervously._

_JJ opened the door. "Are you alright?" she asked._

_The girl turned to her. "Do you have a dog?" she asked._

_JJ frowned. "No. Why?"_

_The girl sighed. "I can't find the right house," she said sadly. "I think it was number seventy-two—but I can't read my own handwriting—my boyfriend's a dog-sitter, and he's out of town and I'm supposed to feed a family with a golden retriever, and I live ten miles away and I'm practically out of gas as it is—" _

"_Just relax," JJ said, reaching out to put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You look exhausted. Do you want to come inside?"_

"_Oh, no—that's alright," she said, taking a step back. "My dad isn't answering his phone, that's all."_

"_What's your name?" JJ asked. _

"_Ellie," the girl replied, taking a few more steps back and craning her neck to see around the block. "Say," she said, jogging to the edge of the lawn. "That house looks familiar. Do _they _have a dog?"_

_JJ followed Ellie to see where she was pointing. "No," she replied. "The only house I can think of is the one across the street—but they have a border collie, and I think it might have died a few months—_agh!"

_JJ's cry was muffled as she felt very strong hands clasp themselves over her mouth. "Just relax, gorgeous," a voice said softly. She felt a needle slide slowly in and out of her skin as she tried furiously to fight against her unknown assailant. Ellie stared at them bemusedly—the frightened girl from several moments earlier appeared to have disappeared completely._

"_I'll close the door," she said, smiling at JJ and walking away from her. JJ tried to turn her head around towards the girl—but she was losing consciousness fast. The last thing she remembered was being slowly lowered to the ground before everything went black._

When JJ awoke, everything was so dark that she was barely able to tell reality from her memories. Slowly, she sat up—she tried to move her arms, but they had been clasped together behind her. She tried to push herself to her feet, but was stopped as her head made painful contact with the ceiling above her. She was in a closet—and a tiny one at that.

It was all so confusing. Who would want to abduct _her_? They unsub had obviously been after Reid. Unless it was completely unrelated?

_Yeah, _she thought to herself. _That's likely._

She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. What had happened after she'd blacked out? What about Will and Henry? Would the unsub have hurt them, too?

_No, _she thought to herself. _Otherwise Ellie would have said yes when I invited her inside. They wanted to leave without alerting Will or Henry._

_They._ Who was the second unsub? She hadn't even seen his face. Were there more than two? There was nothing in the profile that suggested a team. Delusional unsubs hardly ever worked in teams. Perhaps Ellie had been coerced...?

_No, _she thought to herself. _That doesn't make sense._ _She had plenty of opportunities to escape…_

Furiously, JJ reached out for the door with her foot and started kicking. _"Hello?!"_ she shouted. _"Is anyone out there? Ellie?"_

She heard no answer save a brief snicker and a stern, _"Shh!" _

She kicked again. _"Why are you doing this?_" she shouted. "_What do you want?"_

She could hear a whispered argument taking place. Finally, after a minute or so, someone came over to the door and opened it up.

It was Ellie. Behind her stood another teenager—a boy this time, with the same dark hair and eyes as the girl. They were standing in what appeared to be a small living room—the pair stared at her without speaking for several moments. Then, Ellie began to laugh.

"She's so _confused!" _she giggled. "She doesn't know what to make of it all."

"Why are you doing this?" JJ asked again, trying to keep her voice calm despite her fear and anger.

The teenage boy shrugged. "Just, you know," he said. "Following orders." He sat down in front of JJ and smiled. "I'm Marland."

"From who?" JJ demanded.

"That's rude," the boy said. "You didn't even say 'nice to meet you.'"

"Orders from _who?_" JJ repeated.

"We can't tell you," Marland said. "It's—well, _you _know. It's classified."

"Why?" JJ asked.

"Because if we _tell _you," he snickered, "We'll have to kill you."

Ellie rolled her eyes.

"No," Marland said, adopting an expression of mock seriousness. "Seriously. If we tell you, we can't let you go."

"We should tell her," Ellie interrupted. "This is boring."

"It's alright," JJ said hurriedly. "You don't have to tell me."

"No, no," Ellie said. "I'll tell you."

"It's fine," JJ said. "Really. I don't need to know."

Ellie ignored her protests and leaned close to JJ's ear, as if sharing a secret. "It's on account of your friend," she whispered.

"Reid?"

"_Shh!" _Ellie and Marland simultaneously. However, they both had very wide smiles on their faces—as if the whole thing was some sort of joke—and seemed to be doing it more for the dramatic effect and less because they actually wanted silence.

"What does Reid have to do with this?" JJ asked. "Did _you_ write that poem?"

They both burst out laughing. "Us? Poetry?" Ellie demanded. "We're not poets. Well, we _did _write them, but we wrote them _for _someone else." Then they started laughing again.

"What?" JJ demanded.

"We were helping our friend express his sentiments," said Marland, grinning widely from ear to ear.

"He practically _loves _your friend," Ellie said.

"Reid?" JJ asked.

"Oh, _yes,_" said Marland.

"Well, not _that _kind of love," Ellie interrupted.

"He doesn't _actually _love anything."

"But he likes playing games with people's heads."

"Not regular people," Marland interjected. "_Smart_ people."

"Regular people are _everywhere._"

"Can't get away from them."

"Wait," JJ interrupted. "So why did you abduct _me_?"

"Orders," Marland said.

"We're as confounded as you," Ellie replied.

JJ stared at them suspiciously.

"Oh al_right,_" Ellie said. "You've worn down our defenses. We'll tell you."

"But we _have _to kill you now," Marland said.

"Well, not _us, _specifically."

"But we'll authorize it."

"Well, _we _won't authorize it_. _We don't really _authorize _things. Someone else will authorize it."

"But we'll approve of it. Passively."

"Well, tactically. Not ethically."

"Oh, no, not ethically _at all. _Murder is a terrible thing."

"But you just _had _to know, didn't you?"

"You couldn't stop asking questions."

"Are you going to tell me or not?" JJ shouted, getting angrier and angrier by the moment.

Ellie sat down next to Marland. "Well, you see," she said. "It's really quite complicated."

"We didn't mean to abduct you _instead _of your friend," Marland admitted.

"We meant to abduct _both _of you," Ellie sighed.

"But he was nowhere to be found."

"Not at your house."

"Not at his."

"Not at work."

"So we left him a note," Ellie said. "We couldn't find him," she repeated. "Our friend will be mad."

JJ stared at them. "Why would you want to abduct both of us?" she asked.

The pair exchanged a meaningful glance.

"It's rather complicated," Ellie said. "But—"

"This is the idea," Marland interrupted. "If you abduct _one _person, well—that gives the police a _lot _of information."

"Victimology."

"Motive."

"_Modus Operandi."_

"But if you abduct _two…_all of that information gets messed up."

"Why'd they abduct him?"

"How did they do it?"

"_We don't know. It was different both times."_

"And one turns up dead…"

"Well, killers are different than kidnappers."

"So as time goes by…there's a _strong _likelihood the other one's dead, as well."

"And the police tend to get bored when there's a _strong _likelihood of something like that."

JJ stared at both of them.

"Don't look at us that way," Ellie said. "It wasn't _our _idea. We're just following orders."

JJ shook her head slowly. "Then why leave the poem?" she asked. None of this made any sense.

Marland turned towards Ellie with a look of annoyance. "Because _she _wanted a laugh," he said.

Ellie sighed. "This is why you never get my jokes," she said exasperatedly. "That's why it's _hilarious. _Because the poem was _obviously _for him—and they'll think whoever wrote it was nuts—but then they'll wonder—'why did they take the _lady, _as well?'—and then they'll think—'well, maybe in an attempt to disguise their motives'—and it would all _almost start to make sense—_until they'll be like, 'wait, then _why did they write the poem?'"_ At this point Ellie had collapsed onto the ground, laughing hysterically.

"I'm warning you," Marland said. "She's completely lost her mind. Me, as well, but at least _I _know how to _follow orders_."

"So basically," JJ interrupted, her irritation rising steadily. "Your plan to abduct and kill me was all part of an attempt to confuse the police?"

Ellie started laughing even harder. "It's exactly _because _it makes no sense," she said, not answering JJ's question. "You can't go around making sense all the time. If you do, they'll be onto you like _that._" She smacked her hands together, as if killing a bug. "That's why he keeps us around, you know," she said to Marland. "Otherwise he'd go around being very sensible and it'd be oh so obvious and boring."

"Well, _I _was following the plan," Marland said. "_She _always goes off and does whatever she wants because she thinks it's all a _joke."_

"It _is,_" Ellie giggled, still lying on the floor.

Marland chuckled. "Yeah," he muttered eventually, seeming to forget his anger from earlier. "I guess it _is._"

And then the three of them sat there in silence for several moments. JJ, who was starting to suspect more and more that both teenagers were completely out of their minds, asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Nineteen."

"Forty-two."

"Eleven."

JJ glared at them.

"We're twins," Ellie said, as if this somehow explained everything. "At least, that's what we were told."

"We've got no way of validating it. Neither of us remember our birth."

"You 'd think we'd remember something important like that."

"_I_ suspect foul play was involved."

"This is ridiculous," JJ snapped, unable to believe she had been outwitted by a pair of sociopathic adolescents who were clearly detached from reality. "I _demand_ to know what is going on."

"_DID YOU HEAR THAT?" _Ellie shouted, springing to her feet and bellowing up at the ceiling. _"SHE _DEMANDS _TO KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON!"_

"Who in the hell are you speaking to?" Marland demanded.

"God," she replied.

"Oh."

Then they both started laughing again.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps.

"Oh, _no!_" Ellie shouted. "It _is _God!"

"It's not _God,_" Marland hissed, "It's _him."_

"Well, probably," Ellie replied. "But it _could _be God."

"God doesn't have footsteps," Marland said.

"Why _not_?"

"Well, he _floats._"

"You've got _no _objective evidence for that."

"_You've _got no objective evidence for anything."

"Well _you've—_"

"You have _got _to be kidding me."

The twins froze and spun around to face the man figure who had entered the door. JJ craned her neck to see his face—he was almost freakishly tall, wearing large dark boots and a look of contempt—he could have been any age from forty to sixty and JJ wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

"Get out," he hissed. His voice, though quiet, had a powerful and dangerous quality.

"S-sir," Ellie stammered—although she and Marland both seemed terrified, they also seemed unable to stop laughing. "We can explain."

"There is _no _explanation for this!" he bellowed. "There is _never _an explanation for incompetence! _Get out!"_

"He wasn't at his house," Ellie explained, "And _not even_ the power of great poetry was enough to tempt him from—"

"_GET OUT!"_

The pair turned and sprinted out of the room, still giggling uncontrollably. JJ shrunk further down to the floor, away from the imposing figure.

He smiled at her softly. "I have to apologize," he said, "For my poor temper. Unfortunately, those two are a bit of an…experiment gone wrong." He took a step towards JJ. For some reason, she found his politeness more foreboding that his anger.

"Now," he continued. "This is interesting, isn't it?" He bent down next to her. "Not what I expected, sure," he said. "I'm disappointed. I'll admit it. But sometimes, when life gives you lemons...fools will trade with you for gold." JJ shuddered with disgust, shrinking away as she felt the warmth of his breath on her face.

"In the meantime," he whispered, "I need you to tell me everything you know about your friend Dr. Reid."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: THANK YOU FOR READING AND REVIEWING. YOU ARE AMAZING AND AWESOME AND COOL AND SUCH. Seriously, I loved reading the reviews. A lot of them made me laugh and/or smile. So thanks! :-) - (me smiling.)**

_"We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast as much?" –Samuel Beckett_

"We believe the unsub we're looking for is a female between the ages of twenty-five to forty," Hotch began, addressing the large room of police officers. "She might be delusional, but she is also intelligent, manipulative, and can blend into a crowd."

"Wait," one police officer interrupted, raising his hand. "Yesterday you thought the unsub was male. What makes you think a woman is doing this?"

Hotch cleared his throat. "Further analysis of the writing samples suggested they had been written by a female," he said. "We—"

"'Us mere mortal men?'" interrupted the same police officer, scanning a copy of the poem. "Sounds like a guy to me."

"That was our initial conception, as well," Reid responded. "But if you look carefully, you'll notice an excessive use of superfluous modifiers, like 'so very,' or 'I say' or 'my friend,' which is more typical of females—a male would get straight to the point. And even though the poem is threatening, the passive-aggressiveness of the threats is decidedly female—a male would have been more upfront. In fact, a male unsub would have been much less likely to write a poem at all, and more likely to deliver a blatantly threatening message. In terms of the phrase 'us mere mortal men,' it's more likely the unsub was speaking of 'men' as in 'mankind,' which was a more common way of speaking several centuries ago—this goes along with the use of words like 'shall' in a poem that uses otherwise modern phrases, like 'different stuff' or 'come out and play.' The unsub probably has some experience reading older poetry, but either failed to emulate it accurately or was using it facetiously, resulting in a synthesis of ancient and modern syntax." Reid paused, looking out at his confused audience for several moments, then added, "So, um…she's probably female."

"Thank you, Dr. Reid," Hotch muttered. "There are also the circumstances of the abduction—no reasonable person, let alone Agent Jareau, would have opened their door for a male stranger after dark. If the unsub were female—particularly if she were small in stature and appeared non-threatening—it would have been much easier for her to convince JJ to open the door, especially if she used a ruse or pretended to need help. There was no sign of forced entry."

"So basically," the same officer said, "You're saying that this unsub—that we're all afraid of right now—is a delusional young woman who is small in stature and writes mediocre poetry."

There was a brief silence.

"Um," Hotch said. "Yes."

"According to the profile," Morgan added. "We're still working on it."

There was a brief pause filled with skeptical muttering.

"Female unsubs are rare, but they can be the most dangerous," Blake said, speaking up for the first time. "It doesn't matter how physically threatening someone is if they're pointing a gun at your head."

There was a murmur of grudging consent amongst the officers.

"Is there any chance of more than one unsub?" one of the officers piped up, raising his hand.

"It's very unlikely," Hotch said. "Delusional unsubs hardly ever work in teams. This unsub most likely has an obsession either with our team or with Dr. Reid, specifically."

"Why Dr. Reid?" another officer asked. "I mean, I can see why the _poem _seems like it was intended for him, but…the unsub abducted Agent Jareau."

"Reid was at JJ's house less than an hour before she was abducted," Morgan said. "If the unsub is female, she could have abducted her out of jealously. The unsub did visit Reid's apartment shortly afterwards—that's where the second poem was found. And both poems were addressed to an individual—not a group of people."

"If we're wrong, however," Hotch said, "And the unsub _is _targeting the entire team, we are by no means unprotected. The bureau has set up surveillance in and around our personal homes and cars, as well as here at work—and will immediately respond to any suspicious activity."

"So don't worry about us," Blake said to the officers. "Strauss doesn't want to lose more than one agent to this unsub." She paused, then muttered, "If she loses two or more, she might be held liable."

Hotch glared at Blake for several moments before turning to the crowd of officers again. "Any more questions?"

After a brief pause, an officer who had remained silent throughout the entire meeting raised his hand.

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat. "There haven't been any new leads on this case in five days," he said. "Do you think the unsub will try to contact you again?"

"Yes," Hotch said determinedly. "We are sure of two things—that Agent Jareau is alive, and that the unsub is not finished. Whoever they are, they failed to get what they wanted five days ago—they're biding their time, but they're going to try again. And this time, we'll be ready."

**O**

"This is terrible. I'm moving back into my apartment."

Morgan rolled his eyes as he walked over to the couch, sitting down next to Reid. "You've got your own bed," he said, "Your own room. Your own _bathroom. _And yet—"

"Not my own TV," Reid interrupted, rapidly flipping through the channels. "I had twenty-eight Dr. Who episodes on my DVR that I wanted to watch, and all _you've_ got here is football, wrestling, and…" he trailed off, raising his eyebrows. "Downton Abbey?"

"That was Garcia," Morgan snapped, snatching the remote away. "She records things without my permission whenever she comes over."

_"Sure _she does."

Morgan started flipping through the channels. "Well you were _more than welcome _to stay with Hotch or Rossi, kid—"

"Or in _my _house?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "You know, Reid, if I didn't know you were a genius, I might think you were an idiot."

Reid folded his arms and glared at the screen for several moments. He desperately needed a distraction from the frustration and anxiety of the case—but football was just not capturing his attention. "Can we at least watch Star Trek?" he asked, after several moments. "It's on channels 43, 702, and 789 tonight, from six to ten, eight to twelve, and eight to—"

"_Why _do you know that?" Morgan snapped. "You haven't been home all day!" He took a deep breath. "You know what—no. It doesn't matter. We're not watching six hours of Star Trek, Reid. My TV might never recover." Reid folded his arms and glared at the television. There was a brief moment of silence.

"At least _I _don't watch Downton Abbey."

_"What _did you say?" Morgan demanded, whipping his head around.

"Nothing," Reid said hurriedly, getting to his feet. "I'm going to read."

"You'd _better _go!" Morgan shouted threateningly as Reid hurried out of the room. Finding no books in the guest room, he went into Morgan's room to search—but was unsuccessful in finding anything save several books on profiling and a beat-up copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_, all of which he'd already read. Sighing, he turned around and returned to the living room.

"You have no books," he informed Morgan sadly, sitting down on the couch.

Morgan glanced at him. "Your tone makes it sound like I've killed a puppy."

"Can I at least go to the library?"

Morgan shook his head. "Buddy system," he said. "Remember?"

"Well, can _we _can to the library?"

"Once the game is over."

Reid squinted at the screen, staring at the tiny clock counting down the seconds. "You can't fool me this time," he muttered. "I know that 'twelve minutes' doesn't _really _mean twelve minutes."

Morgan grinned. "And it's the first quarter," he said.

Reid let out an irritated sigh. "So how much time left, then?"

Morgan shrugged. "I dunno," he replied. "Two, maybe three hours?"

_"What?_"

Morgan laughed. "I just started watching. What did you expect?"

"But the library will be _closed _by then," Reid said despairingly.

"Well, then we'll just have to go tomorrow."

"But I'm _bored._ And we can't watch Star Trek and there are no books and you don't even have a _chess _board, what the hell am I supposed to—"

Reid broke off as his long monologue was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Reid whipped his head towards Morgan, eyes widening in alarm—Morgan turned off the television and got to his feet, his hand going towards his gun. "Get back," he whispered.

Instead, Reid darted over to the coffee table where he'd left his badge and gun, grabbed the latter, then followed Morgan to the door. "Who is it?" he hissed.

Morgan took his eye away from the door. "Just some guy," he muttered. "I don't know him. He doesn't look armed, though." Hesitantly, Morgan opened the door a crack.

"Hello," he said. "Can I help you?"

The guy glanced at the back of the door again—as if he were re-reading the number—and then handed Morgan a piece of paper. "I'm supposed to give this to you," he said. "See ya."

"Wait," Morgan said, reaching out and grabbing the back of the guy's shirt—he whirled around, looking furious, then shouted, "What's the big idea?"

"Who gave this to you?"

The guy blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean _who gave you this note?_"

"What's the matter?" the guy asked, growing increasingly irritated. "It's just a stupid poem."

Morgan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge, holding it out for the man to see. "You'd better come with us," he said. "We've got a few questions."

**O**

_"Shh. _I think she's asleep."

"Is she? I can't tell." There was a pause. "Let's wake her!"

"That would be rude."

"Unless she's not really sleeping."

There was a sigh. "If she isn't asleep, we can't wake her anyways."

JJ opened her eyes a crack. She looked around confusedly—where was she? She tried to dredge up memories from earlier, but was unable to—the earliest memory was of a pair of teenagers and a strange, tall man. Despite this, she couldn't help but feel as if vital components were missing from her memory.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the room, she saw two pallid faces looked excitedly back at her. The two men looked very similar, despite the fact that one had dark hair and the other was blond—they had the same chalk-white faces and wide, bloodshot eyes. JJ backed away from them, very alarmed.

"Where am I?" she asked. When she raised her hands to her face, she saw that the skin was scratched and torn and covered in blood. "Wh-what happened?"

"You're very pretty, miss," the blond man said, giving her a wide smile. His colleague, who seemed much shyer, turned his eyes to the ground.

JJ looked around the room nervously, searching for an escape—but the small room contained nothing save two benches and small table in the middle. The entire room was lit up by fluorescent lights.

"Where am I?" JJ asked again, trying to suppress the uneasiness building in the pit of her stomach. "What's going on?"JJ couldn't quite put her finger on what she was frightened of specifically—the room and its occupants had an eerie quality she was unable to identify.

"You don't remember?" asked the blond one again. Although his tone was sympathetic, his smile grew wider as if against his will. "She doesn't remember," he said—although it seemed like he was speaking to his companion, his eyes didn't sway from JJ's face.

"Ah," said the dark-haired man sadly. "She won't be long, then."

"Won't be long for what?" JJ demanded, her voice growing shrill with panic. "What does that mean? Won't be long for _what_?" Her eyes darted towards the door—there was no handle. She got to her feet and ran towards it anyways, pushing against it with all her might—it didn't budge.

"Just relax, miss," the blond-haired man said. "It won't be long."

JJ whipped around. "I remember," she said frantically. "There was a man. A man and two twins—a boy and a girl. Their names…" she trailed off, closing her eyes. "Why can't I remember?" she asked.

Both men stared at her without speaking. She turned away from them, banging on the door once again.

"Let me out!" she screeched. "Who are you? I want to go home! _Please!_" Her pleas were met with silence. She turned back towards the two men. "I was at my house," she continued desperately. "There were a man and a boy and a girl. Or just a girl? A man and a girl?" she trailed off desperately, trying to recall the details that she felt had somehow been stolen from her—but the harder she tried to recall, the more the memories melted away, like the details of a strange and nonsensical dream.

The blond man stood up and put his hand on her shoulder—his skin was papery soft and ice cold. She shivered. "Don't worry," he said solemnly, still wide-eyed and smiling. "Sit down. Relax. It will all be forgotten soon."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing and generally being incredibly cool! I hope everyone likes this chapter. (****_Warning: there is more poetry. Sorry about that.)_**

_"You see, that's the difference between you and me. Happiness isn't good enough. I demand euphoria." –Bill Watterson_

Reid sat cross-legged, chin in his hands, gazing blankly at the papers in front of him while images of JJ swam ceaselessly around in his head. His brain was numb with frustration and restless worry—for lack of any other ideas, he once again scanned the words of the poem he had long since memorized.

_A man was killed the other day.  
The reason why? I cannot say.  
Our lives are short, you must contend—  
And time is ticking towards its end.  
It is a strange philosophy—  
A special kind of heresy  
That speaks of murder and of life  
Of hate and anger, fear and strife.  
You know not knowledge, joy, nor love—  
You do not know euphoria._

"So, pretty boy—figured it out yet?"

Reid started, then glanced over his shoulder at Morgan and glared. "'Figured it out?'" he asked eventually.

"Well, you know—decoded it. Or found the secret message, or….something."

Reid stared at him. "It's a poem," he said. "Not an ancient hieroglyph. You can't 'decode' poetry."

Morgan folded his arms. "Well, then," he muttered. There was a brief pause. Reid returned to the poem—after several moments, of silence, however, Morgan spoke again.

"So…have you figured _anything _out?"

Reid turned around, annoyed. "Listen," he said. "There's only so much you can learn about a person from their writing style—and we've already learned all we can from the last few poems. The only thing we're going to learn from this point onwards is what the unsub _wants _us to know."

Morgan frowned. "So, why are you still reading it, then?"

Reid let out a sigh and returned his gaze towards the poem. "Because I've got nothing better to do," he muttered.

Morgan reached out and grabbed his arm. "Stop being obsessive," he said.

"No," Reid muttered, pulling against him. "Leave me alone."

Morgan ceased pulling and raised his eyebrows. "Hotch wants you to take a look at the sketches of the suspect who gave that guy the poem," Morgan said. "See if you recognize him."

Reid blinked. "Him?" he asked, uncomprehending. "But the unsub's a female."

Morgan shrugged. "Hotch just finished interviewing him—I guess we were wrong."

Reid got to his feet angrily. "No," he said. "The poems were written by a female."

"Alright, Reid, but the guy who _gave us the poem _says he spoke to a young male, so unless he's got really bad eyesight—"

"He's lying," Reid snapped. "The unsub is female. That fits the profile."

"Well, Reid, profiles can be wrong."

"But it doesn't make sense," Reid argued.

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Will you just _take a look _at the pictures? It won't kill you."

Reid set his jaw angrily and folded his arms. "No," he said.

Morgan glared at him. "Reid—"

"I have nothing to gain from looking at those pictures. Because they _aren't _pictures of the unsub. Because the unsub is _female._"

"Reid," Morgan said carefully, lowering his voice. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that a male unsub would be much more likely to kill JJ than a female one?"

_"No," _Reid snapped immediately. "I just know that I'm right. The writing style and the abduction all point towards a female unsub. So, if the unsub wrote those poems and abducted JJ, she's a female."

Morgan sighed. "Reid, there might be some other explanation. Maybe—"

"I don't care," Reid interrupted. "I'm not looking at the pictures. It's useless."

"Yes, you are." Morgan grabbed Reid's arm and tried to pull him from the couch again.

"No, I'm _not._" Reid snapped, digging into the edge of the couch with his fingernails.

"Yes you _are." _Morgan pulled again, nearly, lifting him off of the couch.

"I am _not!" _Reid hissed, leaning back as far as he could and directing several poorly aimed kicks at Morgan's knees.

"I _will _bring Hotch over here," Morgan threatened. "And you can just sit on the couch and look at them if you—"

"I'm _not _looking at the pictures!" Reid shouted, ripping his arm out of Morgan's grasp and accidentally smacking the back of his hand against the table. "_Ow! _Goddamnit!" Reid snapped, leaping to his feet and clutching his hand. He glanced around the room—most of the other police officers were now staring at them.

"Can we help you with something?" Reid snapped, clutching his hand and trying to ignore the shooting pain coming from his bruised knuckles. They all turned away quickly, muttering softly to each other.

"Reid—"

"I'm going outside," he snapped, pushing past Morgan and heading towards the door. "I'll look at the pictures later."

To his immense dismay, however, he had not been outside for ten seconds when Morgan came through the door behind him, slowly meandering towards where Reid was sitting. After a second or two of silence, the older agent took out his phone and began texting.

Reid stared at him in disbelief for several moments. "Not to be rude," he said eventually, "But I actually came outside to get _away _from you."

Morgan didn't lift his eyes from his phone. "Buddy system," he said mildly. "Remember?"

Reid shrunk back against the wall and put his head in his hands. "I hope the unsub kills me soon," he muttered. "It might just put me out of my misery."

Morgan rolled his eyes and sat down next to Reid. "You know," he said, "You really _don't _handle stress very well."

Reid glared straight ahead, not answering.

"It isn't your fault that JJ got abducted," Morgan said.

"Thank you," Reid snapped, "I wasn't comforted enough the first twenty-eight times you told me that. The twenty-ninth time _really _helped it soak—"

"However," Morgan said, continuing as if Reid hadn't spoken, "It will be _completely _your fault if _you _get abducted. And then we're going to have to save _both _of you, and it's going to be this huge hassle, _again, _and—"

"So, what?" Reid snapped, "You've appointed yourself as my own personal bodyguard?"

Morgan laughed. "No," he said. "I've already got one full-time job. Two might put me over the edge."

Reid glared. "That isn't funny."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Here's some advice, Reid," he said. "Stop acting like an adolescent and _accept that you might need help right now._"

Reid was silent for several moments. Finally, he sighed, then pushed himself to his feet. "I'll look at the goddamn pictures," he muttered. "But I _still _say the unsub's a woman."

**O**

"Will you _please _walk a little bit faster?"

JJ clutched her arms to her body and stumbled forwards. The patterns on the buildings around her were dizzying—she grabbed onto the arm of the girl standing beside her, who for some reason looked both familiar and very unfamiliar.

"Ellie," she whispered suddenly. She wasn't sure which part of her memory the name came from—or if it even came from her memory at all, or if it was simply something her subconscious had concocted to fill the void.

"Shh," the girl said, holding a finger to her lips and smiling. "We've just been attacked."

JJ frowned, looking around for the attackers. "We have?"

"Oh, yes," the girl whispered. "By a group of murderous and rampaging peasants."

JJ blinked. "Peasants?"

"Yes, peasants," the girl replied. "They've been striking in the streets. Luckily, _you _were able to fight them off."

"Me?" JJ muttered. Everything was very mixed up and confusing and strange. "That doesn't sound like something I would do."

"What do you mean?" the girl asked incredulously. "You fight crime for a living."

"I do?" JJ frowned, feeling a vague stirring of recollection.

"Oh yes," the girl said. "You're actually Catwoman. Don't you remember?"

"Will you _stop?" _The voice of a boy came from behind JJ—she turned around confusedly, feeling as if she had simultaneously forgotten that he was there and also known he was there all along. "You're supposed to give her a _realistic _back-story," the boy snapped.

"I _am,_" the girl replied innocently.

The boy glared at her. "Unless we live in seventeenth century Europe," he said, "We're probably not going to encounter any murderous and rampaging peasants. Besides, Catwoman is a _villain._"

"She most certainly is _not,_" the girl hissed. She lowered her voice even further. "And don't _speak _that way about Catwoman. Her self-esteem is very fragile right now."

"I'm not Catwoman," JJ interjected, feeling relatively certain about this.

"Alright, listen," the boy said, pushing the girl aside. "This is what happened. You were driving in a car with a man, but you don't remember what he looks like. He lost track of the steering, and you crashed into a tree, and…" he trailed off, thinking.

"And then a group of peasants brought you to safety," continued the girl. "And they forced you to take part in their strike, in which they all demanded cake, and—"

"And then you woke up here and that's all you remember," finished the boy, shooting his female counterpart an irritated look.

"But who are you?" JJ asked them desperately. "I don't remember you." She paused for a moment, trying to think back—but it was like grasping at water that had been sucked down a drain. "I don't remember anything."

"It doesn't matter," the boy said. "You'll forget us soon enough. Come _on, _Ellie."

"Wait! Don't leave me!" JJ shouted. She tried to run after them—but her dizziness overtook her, and she fell to the ground. "Please don't leave me!" she shouted again, reaching out towards them. "Please help me! I don't remember!"

The boy ignored her—the girl just laughed. "Goodbye, Catwoman!" she shouted, raising her hand in farewell. Seconds later, they had both rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

**O**

"I want to go see her."

Hotch sighed, shot an irritated glance at Reid, then said, "You can. In a moment."

"But every moment we waste, that's another moment the unsub might be getting away!" Reid snapped. He was pacing back and forth agitatedly—ever since news about JJ had reached them, his moods had fluctuated between relief and restlessness and happiness and worry. "We need to interview her!"

"She was barely coherent when the police brought her in," Hotch said. "I doubt we're going to get any useful information out of her now."

"But she shouldn't be by herself," Reid insisted. He peered through the waiting room door, trying to get a better look inside. "I should probably go in," he said, after a few moments.

"Really?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows. "Why you?"

"Because the doctors might not know about JJ's allergy to epinephrine."

Hotch rolled his eyes. "I'm sure they know about it," he said. "It's in her medical chart."

"Yes, but it's actually a very rare allergy, so I should probably go and remind—"

"Besides," Hotch said, continuing as if Reid hadn't spoken. "Why would they give her epinephrine? Isn't that used to treat bee stings?"

"It's sometimes added to local anesthetics to increase longevity and efficiency," Reid snapped as if he were stating something obvious. He paused for a moment. "I should probably just go in now, before it's too late," he muttered, nodding to himself and reaching for the door.

"Alright, Reid," Hotch said, reaching out and putting his hand on Reid's shoulder. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but the people in there _are _doctors."

"Yes, but—"

"Have _you_ gone to medical school?" Hotch interrupted, not allowing Reid to finish his protest.

"No," Reid replied, "But I have read about three times the number of medical books required by the average doctoral curriculum. Did you know that an estimated 195,000 people die annually from in-hospital medical errors?"

"Morgan!" Hotch shouted, ultimately deciding that he couldn't calm Reid down on his own. Morgan, however, appeared to have conveniently fallen asleep on the other side of the room, despite the fact that he had been wide awake watching the football game less than a minute ago.

Reid was silent for less than a second. "Do you think they're aware of her sensitivity to chemically treated cotton?" he asked suddenly.

To Hotch's immense relief, a doctor came through the doors moments later.

"How is she?" Reid demanded, before Hotch had a chance to speak.

The doctor glanced at his clipboard. "And you're with Jennifer Jareau?"

"Yes, we're her team," Hotch said. Across the room, Morgan shook Will awake, and the pair of them hurried across the room.

"Well, first off," the doctor said, "She's going to make a full recovery," he said.

Hotch heard Morgan let out a sigh of relief. He, too, felt as if a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Despite his exhaustion, he could feel a wide smile spreading across his face.

"Are you sure?" Reid demanded of the doctor. "You didn't give her any epinephrine, did you?"

"Shut the hell up and be happy, Reid," Hotch said, clapping Reid on the shoulder and grinning at Morgan.

"However," the doctor continued, "Aside from the minor cuts and scrapes, she appears to have drug-induced amnesia."

Hotch frowned at the doctor. "Do you know what drugs she was given?" he asked.

"We've sent out for a toxicology screen," the doctor said, "But it's nothing like I've personally seen before."

Reid opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, muttering something to himself about epinephrine.

"But she'll be okay," Will said. "Right?"

"In all likelihood, yes," the doctor said, "Aside from the memory loss and the disorientation, the drugs do not seem to be causing her any harm. We're going to keep her in the hospital for observation while the drugs wear off."

"Can we see her?" Reid demanded, already reaching for the door.

"You can," the doctor said, "But I wouldn't suggest disturbing her too much—she's still suffering from amnesia, and any visitors might just upset her."

Reid, however, only appeared to hear the first few words—by the time the doctor had finished speaking, he was halfway across the hall, with Will following not far behind. Morgan and Hotch glanced at each other.

"I should probably go tell Blake and Garcia," Morgan said. "I think they went down to the cafeteria…"

"I guess I'll go with them, then," Hotch muttered. "Make sure Reid doesn't put on a lab-coat and start treating JJ himself."

Morgan laughed. "Good luck with that," he said. Then, letting out a yawn, he pushed his way through the door and followed Reid down the hallway.

**O**

JJ stared at the blinking monitor beside her bed. Her brain was exhausted—nevertheless, the feeling of blank disorientation was so unnerving she was unable to slip into unconsciousness.

Two men entered the room—they appeared to be arguing about something. Upon seeing their faces, she was immediately ambushed by a rush of familiarity—but their names escaped her. A third man followed behind them—upon seeing him, she immediately felt a rush of emotion.

"Will," she gasped, reaching out towards him. "Oh my God."

Will instantly ran over to her and put his arms around her. She lifted her head up to examine the two men—although she felt as if she knew them, she couldn't quite put a face to their names.

"Hi, JJ," said the dark-haired man. "It's Hotch. Remember me?"

JJ blinked. The name seemed to harbor a distinctive attachment to the man who spoke it—she nodded. "I think so," she whispered. "Everything's all mixed up."

"You remember me," said the younger man, approaching her rapidly in a manner that betrayed his nervousness. "Spencer Reid. Right?"

JJ shook her head slowly. "No," she muttered slowly. Then, she said, "Not Spencer. It's Spence."

Spencer Reid broke out in relieved laughter. "Sounds about right," he said, grinning broadly.

But JJ couldn't stop staring at him. There was something wrong. "Spence," she whispered suddenly. "Oh, no." And then she burst into tears.

Will immediately sat down on her bed and put his arm around her. "It's alright," he said. "Everything's fine now." JJ shook her head back and forth. She still couldn't stop crying.

"What's wrong?" Reid demanded, approaching them. "Did they give you epinephrine?"

JJ shook her head back and forth. She raised her eyes to look at his face. She couldn't explain it—but Spencer Reid's face but brought forth a vague and pervading sense of guilt and horror that she simply couldn't explain.

"I can't remember," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Spence…" And she buried her face in Will's chest and sobbed for the terrible thing she had done that she simply couldn't remember. "It's so foggy…everything…I just don't remember…"

"We'll go." That was Hotch speaking now—JJ raised her head and saw that both him and Reid were backing slowly out of the room.

"No!" JJ shouted, springing to her feet. "Don't leave, Spence! They're going to…I…." she trailed off, staring at him wordlessly.

She felt Will pulling her back towards the bed—although she wanted nothing better than to lie down, she couldn't dispel the sense of urgency that compelled her to prevent Reid from leaving the room.

"It's alright, JJ," Reid said, giving her a smile that was supposed to be comforting. "Will's with you now. Everything's fine."

"It's not me," she gasped. She tried to take a step forward—but the whole room had started spinning again. "It's not me, Spence." Everything felt strange and dizzying and frightening. "It's not me, Spence….it's you…." She tried to step forwards—but before she knew it, the wall had tilted strangely—and then she was looking at the ceiling, and she heard Will shouting and Reid and Hotch were calling for the doctors and the image before her was fading in and out like an old television screen, and she closed her eyes and let her head fall back because she was so, so tired…

**O**

"I _told _you not to overexcite her."

Hotch, Will and Reid were all sitting in the waiting room again, gazing sheepishly at the ground as they were admonished by the doctor.

"She would have been fine if she hadn't tried to get up," Reid muttered. "_We _did nothing wrong. It was _her _poor decision. In fact, it was lucky we were there."

The doctor folded his arms and glared at Reid. "Excuse me?" he said.

"I was just saying that it could have happened whether we were there or not—it wasn't our _presence _that made her fall over, it was the fact that she stood up and got dizzy. She might have stood up on her own, and seeing as there weren't any _nurses _in the room supervising her it's a good thing that we were there, otherwise Will wouldn't have caught her and she would have gotten a concussion. I actually would suggest having a nurse _and _a doctor in there, because the nurses might not be aware of her epinephrine allergy, and—"

"Stop," the doctor snapped, holding up one finger. He pointed at Reid, then at the door. "You. Get out."

Reid sat up straight. "Me?" he asked incredulously. "What did _I _do?"

The doctor gritted his teeth. "Well, it was _your _presence that upset her," he said. "Among other things," he muttered, under his breath.

"But that wasn't my _fault—_besides, she probably just—"

"No," the doctor snapped. "I don't care whose fault it was. According to your story, she saw you and got upset. You can sit in here all night if you want, but you're _not_ visiting my patient again. So, unless you get enjoyment out of sitting in hospital waiting rooms, I'd suggest you go home for the night."

Furiously, Reid got to his feet and headed towards the door. He paused with his hand on it, then turned around.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked. "Because it seems like you're understaffed."

"Goodbye, Reid," Hotch called sternly, waving from across the room. Sighing, Reid closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway, searching for Morgan.

"Hey!"

Reid froze, then whipped around—a pair of teenagers were waving to him from across the hall. Seeing no one else in sight, he frowned at them, then shouted, "Are you talking to me?"

"Who does it _look _like we're talking to?" shouted the girl.

Reid shrugged. "Me, I guess," he said. "Do you need something?"

"We're looking for our father," said the boy. The two of them began to walk across the hallway towards Reid.

"I actually don't work here," Reid said, looking down to see if he was wearing anything resembling a lab-coat. He wasn't.

"We're lost," the girl said. "We can't find anyone to help us."

"Right," Reid said, nodding, "It's probably because they're understaffed."

"Do you know where the burn unit is?" the girl asked. She was several steps away from Reid now. He wondered why her brother wasn't following her.

"It's not here," Reid said, turning around. "It's actually on the fifth floor. Let me—_agh!" _Reid broke off as if felt something very sharp come into plunge deep into the back of his neck. Fearing that he was being attacked, he whipped around and stared at the girl. "What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.

The girl had started giggling uncontrollably. "You'll thank me later, Dr. Reid," she said, then turned and sprinted down the hallway.

Reid stared after them for several moments, gripped by confusion and panic. A female unsub—a male unsub—two teenagers—? "Oh," he muttered to himself, captured by a moment of epiphany. He was instantly seized by a desire to chase after them, but his better judgment told him to alert someone of what had just happened. He reached for the back of his neck—what had they injected him with? What was the point of giving him a sedative, if they were just going to run away? They obviously couldn't abduct him from a hospital without somebody noticing. Perhaps they _were _delusional? But delusional unsubs hardly ever worked in teams…

And then it hit him.

**O**

Morgan yawned widely, constantly glancing across the lobby to see if Garcia and Blake had arrived. He couldn't focus on the game—the screen was too small and the volume too low. He folded his arms, irritated, and then let out a sigh.

"Well, _you _look rather grumpy."

Morgan jumped—he whipped around and came face to face with Reid who, despite his ordinarily clumsy nature, had somehow managed to sneak up behind him without his noticing.

"It's crowded in here," Reid commented mildly. "Oh! Is that the football game? Who's winning?"

Morgan frowned at his friend. "What the hell are you so happy about?" he asked, slightly unnerved by the uncharacteristic grin that was stretched across his friend's face.

Reid shrugged. "I'm glad JJ's okay," he said.

Morgan got to his feet. "Did you see her?"

Reid nodded. "She passed out," he said. Then he laughed. "Then I got kicked out for upsetting her." He laughed again.

Morgan just stared. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Reid surveyed him quizzically. "What do you mean? Why _wouldn't _I be okay?"

"You just seem…" he trailed off. "Really happy. That's all."

"What?" Reid demanded. "Am I not allowed to be happy?"

"You're allowed," Morgan said, laughing also. "But remember, kid—we still have to catch the unsub."

"Un_subs_," Reid said.

Morgan blinked. "What?"

"As in, the plural. There's more than one unsub."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "How do you figure?" he asked.

"It's the only explanation," Reid said. "A female unsub wrote the poems and abducted JJ—and the male unsub delivered the poems to the guy who gave them to us." He shrugged.

"But delusional unsubs hardly ever work in teams," Morgan said, for what felt like the millionth time.

"So, maybe they aren't delusional," Reid retorted.

Morgan raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe they're just—you know." He shrugged again. "Trying to have a little fun."

Morgan's eyes widened. "'A little fun?'" he asked incredulously. "Reid, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Reid began to talk very quickly. "All the unsubs have done so far is send us poetry and abduct JJ," he said, "And they brought her back right afterwards. What kind of an unsub returns an FBI agent unscathed?"

"She _wasn't _unscathed," Morgan pointed out. "She was stumbling around in the streets, covered with blood and without a memory."

"What I _mean,_" Reid continued, "Is that they didn't _kill _her."

Morgan continued to shake his head. "Honestly, kid," he said. "I don't really see your point in this. And not to put a damper on your happiness, or anything, but your smile is kind of creeping me out."

Reid just laughed, seeming strangely impervious to Morgan's negativity, then turned and headed towards the door. "You know what I've just realized, Morgan?" he asked.

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "What?" he asked.

"I'm really smart."

Morgan couldn't help but laugh. "Listen, kid, if it's taken you this long to figure that out, I'm not sure how smart you can really—"

"I should get a snack," Reid continued, as if Morgan hadn't spoken. "Do you want a snack?"

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "No," he said. "But—"

"You're right," Reid said. "I'm not really hungry." Then he sat down beside Morgan and stared at the wall for several moments.

"Did JJ tell you anything about the unsub?" Morgan asked him.

Despite the fact that they were sitting directly beside each other, Reid didn't appear to hear him. Irritated, Morgan reached out and shook his friend's shoulder vigorously. Reid jumped, then whipped around.

"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking." Then he laughed again.

Morgan sighed. "I asked if JJ gave you any information."

Reid shrugged. "Not that I can recall," he answered, turning away from Morgan.

"That you can recall?" Morgan asked.

Reid ignored him again.

_"Reid!" _Morgan shouted.

Reid blinked, then turned around. "What?" he asked.

"I'm trying to talk to you!"

"Oh," Reid said, scratching his head."I'm sorry. What did you want?"

Morgan sighed. "Twenty minutes ago, you couldn't shut up about JJ and the unsub. Now, you couldn't seem to care less about them. What gives?"

Reid shrugged. "Like I said," he muttered. "They haven't _really _done anything wrong."

_"What?" _Morgan asked.

"I mean, there are so many other things I could be focusing on," Reid said. "Like, there was this unsub from this case file that I read about a couple years ago. Nobody ever caught him, but he killed two people. We should look for that guy."

Morgan stared at him.

"And there are so many diseases that kill people every day," Reid continued, "And we could spend time curing those. And don't you think it's sad that there haven't been any major advancements in physics after string theory? I've always felt like I should do something about that."

Morgan shook his head in confusion. "What, so you don't want to be a profiler anymore?"

"Well, I could do _both,_" Reid said, shrugging. "I'm only thirty. I've got plenty of energy. I can do whatever I want." He got to his feet. "I should go do something right now," he said.

Morgan got to his feet and put his hand on Reid's shoulder. "Look," he said. "It's great that you're…cheering up, and everything. But you're acting _really_ strange right now."

"I know," Reid said, laughing slightly then pushing Morgan's hand away. "I was just thinking. You know? And I'm glad JJ's safe." He shrugged his shoulders. "You know," he said, "Maybe I _will _get a snack. I'm not too hungry, but they have those caramel apples with sprinkles, and I really like those, so…" he trailed off. "Bye." Then he turned around and walked away.

"Wait!" Morgan shouted, jumping to his feet. "Just…don't go outside, alright? Stay in the hospital!"

Reid raised a hand in farewell without looking back at Morgan. Just as he was leaving, the door opened—Blake and Garcia entered. Reid high-fived both of them and then disappeared through the doors.

The two women approached him. "Well," Blake said. "Reid seems cheerful."

Morgan shook his head slowly. "It's weird," he muttered.

_"Reid _is weird," Garcia said, shrugging. "Just be glad he's happy."

Morgan scratched the back of his head, staring at the space where Reid had just disappeared. Yeah," he muttered. "A little…too happy."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you a million times over for leaving reviews! They brought me tremendous enjoyment J And sorry it took me so long to update—I had exams all this week and last (blah.) Thanks for reading!**

****_"God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." – Voltaire_

"Just close your eyes, JJ. Listen to my voice."

"Where's Reid?"

Hotch frowned at her and exchanged a look with Will. "The doctor sent him out," Hotch said.

"What? Wh—"

"Aren't we enough?" Will asked jokingly, squeezing JJ's hand in a gesture of comfort.

JJ didn't return his smile. "Something bad is going to happen to him," she whispered. "I just _know _it."

Hotch sighed. "I promise not to send him on any dangerous missions while we're still in the hospital," he said, reassuring JJ with a rare smile.

"Although your mother's driving up to see you," Will said gravely. "So he might encounter her."

"Besides," Hotch continued, ignoring Will's comment, "The best thing you can do right now is try to remember. If we catch this unsub, then _nobody _will be in danger."

JJ bit her lip. "Alright," she said eventually. She tightened her grip on Will's hand and closed her eyes once again, taking a deep breath.

"Let's go back to the night you were abducted," Hotch said. "What's the last thing you remember?"

JJ shook her head slowly. "Henry," she whispered.

"What about him?"

"Something…something about salmon."

Hotch nodded. "You had salmon for dinner?"

"I think…" she trailed off. "I took Henry up to his room…then I came back down, and…" she trailed off again. "Reid."

"Reid's there?" Hotch asked.

She nodded again. "We were fighting…and he went outside." She bit her lip. "I remember watching him walk away. And feeling guilty. Guilty and scared."

"Do you remember why?"

JJ shook her head slowly.

"You were fighting," Will interjected.

"Right," JJ muttered. "We fought, and…and he left. And then I waited, and…and you went upstairs…" she trailed off.

"Do you remember what happened after that?"

JJ kept her eyes closed. She shook her head again.

"Think back," Hotch said. "Do you remember sounds? Smells?"

Slowly, JJ nodded. "I remember a knock on the door," she whispered.

Hotch smiled. "Alright," he said. "And what did you do?"

"I opened it," she muttered.

"Right away?" Hotch asked.

"No," she said. "I…" she trailed off and was silent for some time. "I looked out the window first."

"And who was there?"

There was a long pause. "A girl," she said eventually.

Hotch exchanged a look with Will. "What did you do then?"

"I opened the door."

"And what did the girl look like?"

JJ sat there for some time. "I don't know," she said eventually.

"Young or old, would you say?"

JJ shook her head. "I don't know."

"You described her as a 'girl,' not a woman," Hotch said.

JJ nodded slowly, realizing this. "Yes," she said eventually. "She was young."

"How young?"

"Like…" she trailed off. "A girl," she eventually. "She wasn't a woman, she was a _girl_." JJ clutched onto Will's arm anxiously.

"A child?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows.

JJ shook her head rapidly. "Not a child," she whispered. "Just…a girl…"

"Alright," Hotch said. "Do you remember what she looked like?"

JJ was silent for another long moment. "No," she whispered.

"Anything?" Hotch asked. "Hair color? Skin color? Was she tall or short?"

"Small," JJ whispered. "She was dark."

"Her skin was dark?"

"No. Her skin was white."

"What about her was dark?"

"Her…" JJ trailed off. "I don't know."

"Her clothes?"

"I don't know."

"Her hair?"

"I don't know."

"It was dark outside?"

"I don't know."

JJ opened her eyes and stared at Hotch sadly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It all just goes blank. I can't remember what she looked like. All I can remember is what I _thought _about what she looked like. I…" she trailed off again.

"A small girl," Hotch said, reiterating what she had just stated. "She's white. And…dark?"

"Pale," JJ muttered. "That's all. I thought she was pale."

"And what about her was dark?"

JJ sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she said. "There was something—maybe her hair. Maybe it was something else. It all just goes blank after that. I've got nothing." She put her face in her hands. "I'm so tired," she whispered.

"And you don't remember anything else?" Hotch asked.

JJ shook her head slowly. "Just the feelings," she muttered. "I just remember feeling…scared. And confused. And…" she trailed off again and peered anxiously towards the door. "I really need to see Reid," she whispered.

"Why?" Hotch demanded. "Why do you need to see him?"

JJ just shook her head back and forth. "I keep seeing his face," she whispered. "And I keep feeling…" she trailed off and stopped speaking.

"Worried?" Will asked. "Upset? Were you upset, because you'd just fought with him?"

"Guilty," she whispered.

Hotch frowned. "But—"

"I did something," she whispered. "I don't know what I did, but I betrayed him somehow. And it's already too late…" And she put her face into her hands and started crying again.

**O**

"Reid, man, aren't you _tired?_"

Reid completely ignored him—his foot bounced up and down rapidly as he flipped through the pages of his third library book of the night, pausing every now and then to scribble something in the notebook lying next to him.

Morgan sighed. "How much coffee did you _have_?" he demanded.

Reid ignored him and turned the page.

Throwing his arms up into the air, Morgan turned around and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door. Reid could go to sleep when he felt like it.

After Morgan had showered and dried himself off, he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into his bedroom—only to find that Reid had situated himself in the middle of the bed and was scribbling furiously in the same notebook.

"Jesus Christ, Reid!" Morgan shouted, retreating into the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

"Hmm?" Reid asked. "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to show you something."

"I just took a shower," Morgan snapped, pointed at the towel.

"Yes, yes, that's nice," Reid said dismissively. "Listen, Morgan. I was thinking. You know string theory was essentially negated because of scientists' inability to demonstrate the elaborate hypothetical constructions necessitated by the complex mathematical structure?"

Morgan shook his head slowly. "Reid—"

"I know, I know, there are certainly more arguments against it than for it. I used to be skeptical, but today I feel like we _could _test it, _somehow, _in the future, if we could—"

"_Reid—"_

"I _know, _Morgan, you're just going to make the Schrodinger's cat argument again, but if you would just—"

_"REID!" _Morgan shouted.

Reid blinked. "Are you upset about something?" he asked. "You look upset."

Morgan pointed to the door. "It is almost midnight," he snapped.

"But—"

"You do not need a doctorate in physics. You already have three."

"But—"

"If you don't get out of my room, Reid, I swear to God, I _will _kick you out of my apartment."

"That's okay. Just take a look at my notes." Reid hopped off of the bed and extended the notebook to Morgan. "Do you see the potential to eliminate most of the logical inconsistencies?"

_"No!" _Morgan shouted. "But I _do_ see the potential of my _foot _going up your _ass _if you don't leave my room in the next _ten seconds." _

Reid frowned at him, shrugged, then headed towards the door, pausing in the doorway for several moments. "You know," he said. "You _could _have just asked nicely."

_"GET OUT!" _

Once the door had closed Morgan advanced angrily and locked it, letting out a sigh. "I liked depressed Reid better," he muttered to himself, before instantly feeling guilty and aiming a kick at the wall.

After Morgan had gotten ready for bed, he lay down on his back and started flipping through a sports magazine. After less than a half hour, however, he became aware of a noise coming from the living room.

Frowning, Morgan got to his feet and walked into the living room—to his horror, Reid was sitting cross-legged behind the TV with a fistful of wires in his hands and a concentrated expression.

"What are you _doing?_" Morgan roared, horrified. Reid whipped around.

"Oh," he said. "Well, I was trying not to wake you up."

Furiously, Morgan stormed forward, grabbed the back of Reid's shirt, and pulled him away from the television. "What the _hell,_" he snapped.

"I was just trying to get you a better signal," Reid said defensively. "Aren't you tired of waiting one and a half seconds for the picture to show up after you change the channel?"

"Do you want to know what I'm _really _tired of?" Morgan hissed, almost too angry to speak.

"If you'll just let me _finish,_" Reid said, extracting himself from Morgan's grasp and approaching the television once again. Morgan just stared in disbelief, torn between his desire to strangle Reid and his desire for Reid to put his television back together. Finally, Reid finished fastening the wires, put the back of the television on, then turned around to Morgan with a grin.

"You're welcome," he said.

Furiously, Morgan picked up the television remote and turned hit the power button—to his immense relief, the picture appeared and the audio turned on moments later.

"Change the channel," Reid said excitedly.

Morgan put the remote down. "No," he said. "_You _are going to bed."

"But—"

"Honestly, Reid—"

"Just _change _the channel!" Reid insisted vehemently, pointing at the remote. Morgan sighed.

"If I change the channel, will you go to bed?"

Reid pondered this for several moments. "Possibly," he replied.

Morgan picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, then changed the channel. The screen went black for a moment and then the new channel reappeared.

"Sorry, kid," Morgan said, stifling a wide yawn. "I don't notice any difference."

Reid looked unperturbed. "Well, of course not," he said. "There's no _noticeable _difference."

Morgan blinked. "What?"

"I only decreased the time by several nanoseconds," Reid explained. "If you want a _noticeable _difference, you're going to have to get a new TV."

Morgan stared at him. "So what exactly was the point," he snapped, speaking through clenched teeth, "If the time difference is so small that _no one's ever going to know it's there?"_

Reid paused thoughtfully for a moment. _"I'll _know," he said eventually.

Morgan stared at him speechlessly for several moments. Finally, he summoned the energy to raise his finger and point across the hallway. "Go to bed."

Reid frowned. "But—"

"I don't care," Morgan snapped, "If you think you're on the brink of discovering nuclear fusion or a cure for cancer or the goddamn meaning of life. You are going to bed and you're going to _stay _there and you're not going to touch any of my stuff. Got it?"

Before Reid could protest, Morgan had grabbed hold of his friend's arm and began pulling him towards his room.

"But I feel _fine, _Morgan—I'm not even _tired_—"

"I'm pretty sure you're suffering from some sort of delirium-induced caffeine psychosis," Morgan said, pushing Reid into the guest room and standing in front of the doorway. "Get the hell to sleep before you lose your mind permanently. And if you break my TV again, I _will _kill you."

"I'll try," Reid muttered, looking around the room for several moments. "You know what, Morgan? This room is awesome. You're a great host."

"Go to sleep," Morgan snapped, slamming the door. He waited outside for several moments—in case Reid tried to make an escape—then his exhaustion overtook him and he returned to his room. Just as he was on the brink of sleep, however, his phone started to ring.

"Hello?" Morgan yawned, raising the phone to his ear.

"Will's taking JJ home tomorrow," Hotch's voice told him. Morgan blinked, staring at the clock.

"Am I the only one here who attempts to maintain a normal sleep schedule?" he asked.

"What?" Hotch asked. "Oh—sorry. We were with JJ. I guess we lost track of time. She's gotten all of her memories back _except _for the ones during her abduction. Either she's repressed those memories, or—more likely—they gave her some sort of drug that caused amnesia."

"That couldn't have been too hard to find," Morgan said, putting his hand over his mouth to cover yet another yawn. "Alcohol can cause memory loss. It's one of the most common side effects of narcotics—it could have been anything."

"True," Hotch muttered. "But the _specificity _of the amnesia is somewhat…" he trailed off. "Unnerving. And she keeps saying that Reid is in danger. She thinks she betrayed him somehow, but can't remember what she did."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Maybe he can go live with _her, _then," he muttered.

Hotch laughed. "Troubles in paradise?" he asked.

Morgan rolled his eyes. "I honestly don't know what's gotten into him. I mean, he was bugging me a _little _before—always asking to go to the library, making fun of me for watching Downton Abbey—"

"For what?"

"Nevermind—but he's honestly been _ten _times worse ever since he got all happy. He tried to explain string theory to me—and then he fixed my TV—"

"Sounds terrible," Hotch said mockingly. "I'm surprised you didn't put him out on the street."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "_You _try living with a bi-polar, hyperactive genius and see how _you _like it." He sighed. "I'm going to bed," he muttered.

"Good night, Morgan," said Hotch, still with a hint of derision in his voice. Morgan rolled over onto his stomach and let out a sigh. He thought he heard a noise from outside his room—but, too tired to investigate, he decided that it was Clooney and quickly fell asleep.

**O**

The sheets felt too hot and his breath was too loud and besides there was that light coming out of the computer and it was blinking over and over and over again and obviously nobody could sleep with that and he obviously couldn't sleep because there was too much to do and he felt so incredibly _good _inside in a way that was strange and exciting and peaceful and invigorating all at the same time and he just _knew _that he wasn't going to be able to sleep but that was okay everything was okay because it was strange and exciting and peacefully invigorating all at the same time and—

His phone vibrated.

Reid's hand instantly shot out and grabbed it before the light died out. _Unknown number._

"That's strange," Reid muttered. Then he laughed. He opened the text message.

_You feel good now, beyond all doubt  
But what if time is running out?  
So shall euphoria return?  
We found you first—now it's your turn!_

Reid leapt to his feet as he was reading the message. He grabbed his gun and his shoes and his phone and he opened the door and leaned his head out and listened.

Morgan was talking on the phone. Reid walked through the living room and past the television and stepped out into the hallway of the apartment.

It was quiet.

For the briefest instant of a moment Reid wondered why he wasn't questioning the danger of his situation. But was almost as if his mind could no longer comprehend the prospect of danger—such was its invincibility—and such was the infallibility of the enlightened facets of his brain that he was incapable of making a bad decision and incapable of acting impulsively and incapable of being wrong.

_I can't lose this feeling. _This feeling—it was all that mattered and all that was good and all that gave life meaning. It was nothing like Dilaudid. It was nothing like he had ever experienced before. The prospect of losing the feeling terrified him more than anything he had ever conceived.

He stepped out into the cold night air and looked around. The sharp wind stung his bare neck and arms but he didn't notice. Pain was irrelevant. He laughed in the face of the pain.

His phone vibrated again—he raised it to his face and stared.

_Turn around. _

Reid whipped around but saw nothing. He heard a disembodied giggle come from somewhere off to the right—he ran towards it and stopped and turned around. He was alone.

"_Well then, _G-Man, I see you've brought your gun!"

Reid whipped around—it was them. He felt a surge of excitement and joy and relief and advanced towards them. He took his gun out and pointed it at the boy.

"Give me the drugs," he said. "Give them to me now and I won't shoot you."

The boy just looked at the girl. She laughed. "What drugs?" she asked.

"It isn't a joke."

"It's much more of a joke than you think it is," she replied.

"Give them to me." He turned his gun towards the girl.

"You're very demanding," the girl replied. She spoke with remarkable confidence for someone with a gun pointed at her head. "We don't have any right now."

"Why _not?_" Reid shouted. He slammed the gun against the wall—he felt the strangest sensation of frenzied anger and dizzy panic that broke through the mask of euphoria he had been feeling for the past eight hours. He blinked once, then took a stepped towards the girl and grabbed onto the front of her shirt.

"It's wearing off," he hissed. "I can tell. You have to give it to me."

"This is no way to treat a lady," the girl said, giving Reid a smile. He teeth were shockingly white—instead of making her attractive, however, the whiteness contrasted eerily with the pallid skin complexion and dark bags under her eyes. She laughed.

"We're just following orders," the boy said.

"Yeah, Dr. Reid," the girl echoed. "Just following orders. Don't shoot the messenger."

The placating sense of careful joy had been replaced with an unyielding, penetrating aggression. He threw the girl to the ground and turned towards the boy.

"I'll kill you," he hissed. "Both of you."

The boy smiled, equally as calm as his companion had been. "You really want the drug?" he asked. "Then don't kill us. Meet us here tomorrow at the same time and we'll have it for you."

Reid felt the faintest stirrings of panic brewing in his stomach. "A whole day?" he demanded. "Can't you get it sooner?"

"I'm afraid," the boy said, "The product is highly in demand. Highly in demand—and reserved for special customers."

"_Very _special customers," the girl added, pushing herself to her feet. "You should feel _honored, _Dr. Reid."

Reid followed, gun at his side, pleading desperately. "Can't you get it sooner?" he asked. The contemplation of a whole day—twenty four hours, three thousand and six hundred agonizing minutes without the feeling, without the amazing sensation of joy and confidence and _genius _and euphoria…

"How much do you want for it?" Reid shouted after them, simply to prevent their departure. The girl turned around and gave Reid a wide smile.

"Don't worry, Dr. Reid," she said. "You're giving us something much _better _than money." With a laugh, she turned and sprinted off into the night, her brother following behind her.

Seized by another surge of violent anger Reid turned and smashed his hand against the wall in fury. _One day. _He couldn't last another minute. He wished he had followed them—what if they didn't come back. He slumped against the wall and pressed his face against his gun.

_You're a drug addict, _chimed a voice in his head cheerily. _Ohh, but this isn't a drug. No, it's not a drug. This is much more. This is euphoria. _

Reid stared straight ahead, unable to move from his current position. He wanted to remain where he was until they came back. He shut his eyes and grabbed fistfuls of his hair in his hands. He wouldn't make it—he would stay here and wait—Morgan and JJ and Hotch and the team meant nothing to him. All life paled in comparison to the feeling. Everything lost its meaning to euphoria.

_One more day._


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry it took so long for me to update! I had my last final today so I ****_should _****have more time to write now (theoretically.) As always, thank you for your reviews! I would love to hear what you think of the chapter! (Also: did anyone else watch the finale/what did you think of it/when you learned which character died did you feel relief, sadness, joy, ambivalence….? Just curious.)**

**Anyways. Enjoy the chapter!**

_"How nice—to feel nothing, yet to still get credit for being alive." –Kurt Vonnegut_

Morgan pounded his fist against the door five times. "Reid! Are you in a coma, or something? Open _up!"_

Once again, he was met by silence.

Morgan sighed. "Alright, kid," he said. "You've got two seconds to open the door or I'm _coming in there."_

More silence.

Frowning, Morgan reached down and pushed the door open. It was unlocked—the bed was empty. Morgan walked over to the bathroom door and knocked several times. Nothing.

Frantically, Morgan whipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed Reid's number. It went directly to voicemail.

"_Reid!" _Morgan shouted. "Shit," he muttered to himself, already dialing Hotch's number. "Hotch," he said, before his boss could say anything, "I can't find Reid. He isn't in his room."

There was a brief pause. "What?" Hotch asked, bewildered. "Did you try calling him?"

"No," Morgan snapped, "I thought I'd call you first, just to make sure it was a good idea."

"What?" Hotch asked, evidently too tired and confused to fully understand Morgan's sarcasm.

"Of _course _I called him, Hotch!" Morgan snapped. "He isn't answering! I don't—" Suddenly, Morgan broke off, as he heard the front door opening. Immediately, he dropped the phone and reached for his gun. He slid behind the doorway, peering out into the living room.

It was too dark to see properly—however, Morgan had not been hiding for more than five seconds before the figure entered the room and pulled back the door. He appraised Morgan with a bemused expression before he spoke.

"What are you doing?"

Morgan relaxed, allowing his gun to drop to his side, and glared at Reid angrily for several moments. "It's five-thirty in the morning," he snapped. "What are _you _doing?"

Reid shrugged, then pointed at the phone on the floor. "I think Hotch is calling you," he said, then made his way over to the bed and flopped down on his back.

Morgan bent down and snatched the phone off the floor. "It's fine, Hotch," he muttered. "Nevermind." He shoved the phone in his pocket and rounded on Reid.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Reid continued to lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Sorry, mom," he replied, without looking at Morgan. Frowning, Morgan noted that his face looked slightly paler than usual—this paleness only served to accentuate the dark circles under his eyes.

"Seriously, Reid. Have you been gone all night?"

Reid shrugged. "Couldn't sleep," he muttered. "Don't feel well. I think I'm going to stay home today."

Morgan folded his arms and glared. "So you decided to go for a midnight stroll?" he asked. "While our team is being stalked by a deranged killer? Tell me, Reid—when _exactly _did you decide to become insanely suicidal? Was it recently?"

Reid still didn't move. "Miraculously," he said, "I appear to have survived."

"Honestly, Reid—"

"I was just walking around _inside _the building, alright?" Reid said, with an air of lazy ambivalence. "I figured it'd help me sleep. I _told _you, I don't feel well."

Morgan folded his arms. "You've got dirt on your shoes," he snapped. "_And _all over your knees. I can _tell _you've been outside."

"Maybe if your washer worked, I'd have some clean clothes."

"My washer works just _fine._ Just like my _television _worked just fine."

"I guess we'll have to agree to disagree, then."

"I'm serious, Reid. Where the _hell _have you been all night?"

Reid sat up and glared at Morgan. "Alright, you caught me," he said. "I'm a vampire."

"This is _not _funny!" Morgan shouted, as Reid flopped back down on the bed again. "I swear to God, Reid—how can you _possibly _be so stupid? Unless the information part of your brain has become so ridiculously large that it has literally _eaten _the part that's able to make logical, functional decisions, there is absolutely _no_ excuse for your behavior."

"You're right, then," said Reid, while staring bemusedly at the ceiling fan. "That's exactly what's happened."

"I'm telling Hotch," Morgan snapped.

"Oh, no!" Reid shouted, with unexpected animation. "What if he gives me a detention?"

Furiously, Morgan whirled around and slammed the door shut. After pacing back and forth angrily several times, he dialed Hotch's number again.

"Yes, Morgan?" Hotch asked sleepily. "What now?"

"I'm going to kill Reid," Morgan snarled.

"I see," Hotch said.

"First he destroys my TV," Morgan snapped, "Then he disappears all night and comes back into _my _house and has the nerve to act like it's _no big deal—_I swear to God, Hotch, it's like living with a twelve-year old."

"Wait," Hotch interrupted. "Did you say he disappeared all night?"

"Yep," Morgan said. "And now he wants to stay home because he claims he 'doesn't feel well.'"

There was a long, drawn out pause. "Do you think he's using again?" Hotch said eventually.

Morgan blinked once, frowned, then peered at the door to Reid's room. He took several steps away, then muttered, "It's impossible—not with the way he was acting last night. I couldn't get him to stop moving. _Or _talking. Or…_fixing things. _Not to mention the theoretical physics. That's not how someone on Dilaudid acts."

Suddenly, the doorknob turned. Reid poked his head out and glared at Morgan. "I can hear you, you know."

Morgan stared at Reid for several moments, embarrassed, tuning out the majority of Hotch's words as he tried to formulate a response.

"I had too much coffee," Reid snapped eventually. "Alright? I was tired, and had too much caffeine, and I wasn't thinking straight. And I'm _still _tired, so you'd be wise to let me get some rest."

"Morgan? Are you there?"

Morgan blinked. "Yeah, uh—one sec, Hotch." Sheepishly, he extended the phone to Reid. "Talk to Hotch," he muttered. "I'm getting ready for work."

When Morgan returned, Reid was lying on the bed again, his face in the pillow, the phone at his side. Morgan stood in the doorway for several moments—unsure whether Reid was asleep or not—then asked, "What did Hotch say?"

With what looked like a tremendous amount of effort, Reid rolled over, picked the phone up, then held it out to Morgan. "He said I was grounded," he replied. "I'm not to leave the room for the rest of the day." Then he fell back down onto the pillows again and proceeded to ignore Morgan completely.

Eventually, Morgan decided to leave. After grabbing a bagel from the kitchen, he poked his head in Reid's room one last time. "Really, kid," he said. "Cut it out with all the coffee. You're going to lose your mind, eventually. And this whole thing had _better _not be a set up to rebuild my computer or rewire the oven."

Reid didn't respond. Deciding that his roommate had probably fallen asleep, Morgan closed the door and stepped out of the room.

"Seriously, though," he muttered to himself. "It's like living with a _twelve_ year old."

**O**

"Will, you _really _don't need to be here."

Will ignored his wife's requests, refusing to remove his arm from around her waist. "You shouldn't have even left the hospital," he muttered. "Let _alone _be back at work."

JJ rolled her eyes. "My memory's back," she said.

"_Except _for the days when you were missing!" he reminded her.

JJ rolled her eyes. "Yes," she said. "Because I'm sure _those _memories would have filled me with a warm, fuzzy feeling."

"You're all banged up—"

"Just a few scratches—"

"But you still need rest, and Henry has been asking for you, and—"

Will cut off as JJ put her finger across his mouth to silence him. "And I want to catch this guy," she said. "Before he can hurt anyone else on the team."

Will raised his eyebrows. "You mean Reid?" he asked.

JJ glared at him. "_Anyone."_

"But Reid, specifically. Because you've got this weird, pseudo-scientific sense that he's 'in danger,' and you've decided to spend every waking moment at the BAU until it magically disappears—"

"The 'feeling' will 'magically disappear' once we catch the unsub," JJ snapped, making air-quotations with her fingers. "Come _on, _Will. I feel _fine._"

Sighing, Will got to his feet. "Well, alright," he said, as his voice took on a joking tone. "But _only _as long as Morgan's here to protect you."

JJ blinked. "Morgan's here?" she asked. "Since—oh!" She jumped slightly as she felt large, muscled arms reach out to hug her from behind. Laughing, she turned around. "Hi, Morgan," she said.

"I hope you realized you had everyone worried sick," Morgan snapped. "Honestly, JJ—we've already got our hands full with Reid. We don't need _you _in mortal danger every other week, too."

JJ laughed, but she couldn't stop her eyes from scanning the room behind Morgan anxiously. "Where _is _Reid?" she asked.

Morgan shrugged. "He stayed at home," he said. "Said he didn't feel well. Honestly though, JJ, I might end up having to kick him out soon. He's driving me insane."

"Is he sick?" JJ asked, trying to sound off-hand—behind her, she could practically hear Will rolling his eyes. "Shut up," she snapped at Will, without turning around.

"Eyes in the back of her head," Will muttered. "I swear to God…"

"He's not sick," Morgan said. "He just got himself all worked up the last couple of days, looking for you—_not _your fault," Morgan assured hurriedly. "It's his _own _fault if he can't handle stress well—so he drank _way _too much coffee, tried to destroy my television, stayed up _all _night, and _now _he's complaining about being tired."

"Again, with the television?" Hotch asked exhaustedly, entering through the doorway—Blake and Rossi followed him into the room and sat down. "Really, Morgan—let it go."

Irritated, Morgan folded his arms and sat down beside JJ. "_You _try living with him," he muttered.

Garcia was the last to enter. "Did you find anything yet?" Hotch asked her.

Garcia shook her head. "Not yet," she replied. "I've tried to match the sketch with any males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, going to school for English in the area, anyone who sought psychiatric help for delusions of grandeur, that type of thing—but I've got nothing. The information isn't specific enough."

JJ was instantly seized by a jolt of guilt—despite feeling a vague sense of familiarity when she had looked at the sketches, she had been unable to recall any additional information. _I've met the unsub, _she thought to herself. _And he's _still _going to get away._

"By this point, it _is _apparent that there's more than one unsub," Hotch said. "While the poetry and JJ's witness account both pointed towards a female unsub, the man who was given the poem distinctly described a male—and it's likely that the unsub would have needed to be significantly strong in order to subdue JJ—who, we all know, is no easy target."

JJ tried to smile at the complement, but the most she could manage was a grimace. The entire situation was a nightmare—and she couldn't dispel the feeling that it was far from over.

_I wish Reid was here, _she thought to herself, as Hotch continued to speak about the case. _I don't know why, but I do._

"JJ," Hotch said, interrupting her reverie. "Are you sure you're alright?"

JJ nodded once to herself. "Yes," she said, although she was suddenly overcome with an inexplicable desire to leave the room. "Yes, I just have to use the bathroom. I'll be back."

Before Will could offer to come with her, she got to her feet and hurried out of the room down the hallway. Once she was out of sight, she pulled out her phone and dialed Reid's number, holding onto the vain hope that hearing her friend's voice would somehow ease her anxiety.

He didn't answer.

Stuffing her phone in her pocket, she hurried into the bathroom, then went over to the sink and splashed several handfuls of water in her face.

"It's going to be alright," she whispered to herself—even as she said the words, she knew they were meaningless. "It will be fine—_Reid _will be fine. It _will._"

**O**

_Want to meet earlier?_

Reid sat up straight and stared at the message. He felt a jolt of tingling excitement that he hadn't experienced since the day before—he got to his feet and began pulling on his shoes, forgetting the numbing exhaustion and the pounding migraine in his anticipation. Realizing suddenly that he hadn't actually replied, he grabbed his phone and sent a hurried message.

_Yes please right now?_

As he was waiting, he saw JJ's picture pop up—she was trying to call him. Irritated, he pressed the end button and continued to wait for the response. Finally, it came.

_Same place. _

Reid practically sprinted down the stairs and out the apartment doors—upon seeing no one, he rounded the corner and began looking around frantically. When he didn't see either the girl nor the boy, he dialed the memorized number impatiently and lifted his phone to his ear.

"Calm down, will you?" Reid whipped around—it was the boy.

"Have you got it, or what?" Reid snapped.

"No," the boy replied. "My sister does. I can show you."

Anxiously, Reid followed him around the corner, checking his belt nervously to ensure that he still had his gun. "What's your name?" Reid asked him as they walked, simply to take his mind off of the overwhelming anticipation.

The teenager smirked at him. "It's funny," he said. "You _know _I won't tell you my _real _name—if I even _have _one—but you still need to have something to _call _me." He shook his head. "Humans," he said. "Have to have a label for _everything._"

"Marland!"

The boy whipped his head around, irritated, then frowned at the girl running towards him. "I was in the middle of a very profound speech," he snapped at her. "You just ruined the effect _completely._"

"That's nice," the girl said, pausing to catch her breath. "What was the speech _about_?"

"It was, um…." he trailed off. "_Nominalism."_

She folded her arms. "He asked what your name was, didn't he?"

"No," Marland said defensively.

"Well, my name is Ellie. It's short for Eleanor. And Elena. And Evelyn. Any _E _name, really. None of those are _my_ name_, _but it's short for them. Oh, and Elizabeth. And Elijah. But that's a boy's name." She paused thoughtfully for a moment. "I'm not a boy."

Reid, who had been trying to control his temper up until this point, finally gave in and lost control. "Could someone _please _give me what I came here for?" he snapped.

"You're very impatient," Ellie admonished him. "Now we _will _give it to you, but under _one _condition."

Reid gritted his teeth and reached for his gun. "That wasn't part of the deal."

Ellie laughed. "I didn't know we had a _deal,_" she said. "After all, you're not giving _us _anything. We're just _giving _you the product for _free—_you don't really have much to bargain with, Dr. Reid."

"How about you give it to me, and I don't shoot you?"

Ellie laughed. "We both know you're not going to shoot us," she told him. "Let's say we _do _have the drug on us—what happens when it runs out? Then you've killed the only two people who can give it to you—severely _offended_ them, at the very least."

Reid glared at her. "Fine, then," he snapped. "What's the favor?"

"Well," Marland began, speaking very carefully. "We already _told _you, Dr. Reid, that we don't give the product to just _anybody."_

"No," Ellie said. "We only give it to the people who can…best _utilize _its effects."

Reid folded his arms. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Dr. Reid," Ellie said. "Believe it or not, _we _aren't actually in _charge _of the manufacture of this product."

"No," Marland said. "Matter-of-fact, we're on the bottom of the ladder."

"It's all politics," Ellie said.

"And because we're slightly deranged," Marland said. "Technically."

"Just moderately."

"Not severely."

"Oh, no. Not severely at_ all._"

"Anyways," Marland said. "We're not _stupid._"

"Oh, no. None of us are."

"You _can't _be."

"Well, Marland is. Just a little bit."

Marland shoved Ellie to the ground with surprising ferocity then turned back to Reid with a smile. "Anyways," he said. "The product is an enormous success."

"That's great," Reid said, not entirely willing to wait until the end of the speech, "So can I _have _it?"

Marland frowned and held up a finger. "I need to finish my speech," he said.

"I don't have time for this, you know," Reid snapped, although he had absolutely no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Ellie laughed, pushing herself to her feet and brushing dirt off her pants. "We know," she said. "We've seen it before. You want it too badly. You _have _to wait for it." She grinned at Reid. "You don't have a choice anymore," she said. "That's what's great about the product."

"That's right," Marland said. "And so—"

"On the other hand," Ellie interrupted. "_Nobody _wants to listen to Marland's speeches. We could have you murder your friends and family, too, but where's the fun in that? It's like the speeches—it'd just cause unnecessary pain."

Reid glared at her. "First of all," he said, "You could _not _make me murder my friends and family."

"Of _course _not," Ellie said patronizingly.

"But _back _to the favor," Marland said, shooting Ellie a glare, "We just need you to give this poem to your friend." He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Reid. Reid ran his eyes over it anxiously.

_It's half-past-eight, and kill me now!  
Exist in silence—we must vow.  
You wait— I hate—it frightens me  
The dreams of hate and misery._

Reid glared at them. "So it's _you _who've been writing all the stupid poetry," he snapped.

"Well, _her,_" Marland said, jabbing his finger at Ellie. "She thinks it's a laugh."

Reid shook his head. "What's the point?" he asked.

"HEY, DID YOU _HEAR_ THAT?"Ellie shouted, causing both Reid and Marland to jump in alarm. "DOESANYONE KNOW? WHAT'S THE _POINT_, HUH?" They were met by silence—Ellie looked at Reid and shrugged. "No one knows," she said. "Sorry."

"So that's it?" Reid snapped. "You just want me to give Morgan the stupid poem?"

"Not _Morgan,_" Ellie said, rolling her eyes, "Whoever the hell _that _is. Your nice blond friend."

Reid frowned. "JJ? Why?"

Ellie took a deep breath, but Marland reached over and covered her mouth before she could start screaming again.

"Because she's nuts, _that's _why!" Marland hissed. "Stop asking so many goddamn _questions!" _When he eventually released Ellie, she skipped over to Reid, then stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear.

"Hold out your arm."

Reid glared at her. "I'd prefer if _I _could inject it, if you don't mind."

Ellie laughed. "Oh, no. You won't do it right. You'll accidentally kill yourself, and it'll be a gigantic waste of everyone's time."

Reid smirked. "I won't," he said. "Don't worry."

"Really?" Marland asked skeptically. "So you've had _experience _with this? Is that it?"

Reid felt something shouting at him from the back of his mind—but all the memories of the needles and the addiction and the withdrawal and the meetings somehow seemed remote, foolish, childish—it wasn't like Dilaudid, because it wasn't something that could be overcome. The drug didn't get in the way of life. _Life_ got in the way of the drug.

"Do you want me to deliver your stupid poem, or not?" he snapped.

"Hollow threat," Ellie said, "But I like you, Dr. Reid. I trust you're not an idiot." Then she pressed a syringe into his hand and backed away.

"That's it?" Reid asked. "Don't you have any more?"

"Deliver the poem, and we'll see!" Ellie said, snickering. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Reid!"

Reid stared after them—the desire to follow was vastly overwhelmed by the immensity of what was in front of him. Hands trembling, he dropped the piece of paper onto the ground and popped the top off of the syringe—then he plunged the needle into his vein and pushed.

It took less than ten seconds for him to feel it—with a sense of elation only felt once before in his life, compounded by the knowledge of what he was about to experience, he sunk against the wall and began to laugh. Everything seemed so simple—_of course _it would be easy to keep this from the team. He could post the poem on a door or send it in a letter and pretend to analyze it while they all watched him, with those serious faces that they always had. At the thought of this, he started to laugh again. He thought of Morgan's anger at him this morning, and he laughed. He thought of Hotch's tone of concern, and he laughed. He thought of JJ falling over in the hospital and he laughed and laughed and laughed.

Bemusedly, he raised the syringe to his face, trying to determine whether there were any remnants left. As he did this, he noticed several tiny letters inscribed in the orange tubing—he narrowed his eyes, but was still unable to make it out. He raised it up to the sun, squinting, and the single word was illuminated more clearly than ever.

_Euphoria_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: THANK YOU ALL for being super cool/fantastic/awesome reviewers/readers/human beings. So, uh….YEAH. I might've had too much caffeine when I wrote the end of this. And the middle. And the beginning. Well, I drank more as I was writing it so the problem got progressively worse. Oh well. It's fine. I'll probably survive. Um….I hope you like the chapter?**

_"Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh." –Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange_

JJ couldn't help the spasm of fear that jolted through her body when she heard the knock on the door.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself to her feet—she reached for her gun, unsuccessfully trying to remember whether or not Will was home—then, slowly, she approached the hallway, gun at her side, her heart pounding in her chest.

As she poked her head into the hallway, she saw a furtive movement out of the corner of her eye—she could tell there was someone crouching on the other side of the stairs, but she only saw a flash of white skin for a moment before it was gone.

JJ froze, suspended by terror, trying to remain silent and yet simultaneously feeling as if each breath omitted the sound of a chainsaw roaring to life. She thought she saw another movement—how had they gotten inside?

Her mind whirred frantically. Should she call Hotch? The police? They wouldn't arrive in time. Should she get out? But Henry was upstairs. There was only one option.

JJ took a deep breath—then, gun raised, jaw set, adrenaline pumping, she leapt out from behind the doorway and pointed the gun straight at the intruder.

"Don't m—_argh!" _

JJ only had enough time to see a blurred outline of a man's face before she was hit in the head by what felt like a long, wooden, object. Having dropped her gun on the ground, she somehow managed to reach out and take control of the object, then jam it into the intruder's chest.

"Ah—wait—I don't…JJ?"

JJ blinked in surprise at the familiar sounding voice—she sat upright and stared at the person in front of her.

"Will?"

Will, who was still clutching his chest in pain, gesticulated mutely and pointed at the door.

"What the hell were you doing, sneaking around like that?" she snapped, rubbing her eye with her hand.

Will finally seemed to regain the power of speech. He took a deep breath. "I was trying….to see…who was at the door…" He took another deep breath. "I thought…it might be…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "_You _know." He took a deep breath. "Seriously, JJ," he muttered. "I'm glad you don't get angry too often, because if you did…" He winced and clutched his stomach again. "I'd probably be in a wheelchair by now."

JJ ignored his obvious pain, still too hopped up on adrenaline and paranoia."I thought _you _were the unsub," she snapped. "_You_ were the one who was sneaking around."

"And _you _were the one who jumped around the corner and pointed a gun at me," Will snapped. "Besides, if I _was _the unsub, and I _did _want to sneak around, _why would I have knocked, in the first place?"_

JJ paused for a moment. "Well…I don't _know!_" she hissed eventually. "I was _scared, _alright?"

"Aren't you supposed to do this stuff for a living?" Will snapped.

JJ folded her arms. "Alright, Will, why don't you try getting abducted out of your own home and see how it affects your outlook on things." She sighed, then frowned at the object in Will's hand. "What _is_ that? A broomstick? I didn't even know we _had _a broomstick."

"Neither did I," Will muttered, staring at the object. "It was just in the closet, behind the vacuum. I think we bought it for Halloween last year."

And then there was another knock on the door.

The pair sprang to their feet immediately and stared down the hallway at the original source of their paranoia. JJ reached for her gun and dropped into a crouch—Will stepped in front of her protectively, holding the broomstick aloft.

JJ glared at him. "Seriously?" she hissed. "You _have _a gun."

"I've….misplaced it."

"You've _what?_" JJ shrieked.

"Shh!" Will admonished her, putting a finger to his lips and nodding towards the door. Timidly, JJ took a hesitant step forwards and called out, her voice wavering slightly as she spoke.

"Who is it?"

A familiar voice responded immediately."It's Reid!"

Will and JJ immediately relaxed and glanced at each other sheepishly.

"Well, _that _was a lot of panic for nothing, _wasn't _it?" Will asked, pointing again at his injured abdomen.

JJ glared at him. "Why don't you go find your gun before Henry shoots himself with it," JJ snapped, hurrying towards the door.

"Alright, obviously I put it in a _safe _place, I just can't _remember _where that place _is _right now," Will shouted. JJ ignored him.

When she opened the door, Reid was speaking to someone one the phone. "It's fine, Hotch, she's here," he said, breaking into a wide smile at the sight of her.

"Hey, Spence!" she said, her former irritation overwhelmed by the joy of finally seeing her friend. "How are you feeling? I called you earlier—did you miss it? I've been worried about you. I—what's wrong?" despite Reid's friendly expression, she couldn't miss the way he kept glancing back and forth from her to the door.

"You tell me," Reid said, guiding her outside to show her the back of the door. On it, someone had tacked up a piece of paper.

_It's half-past-eight, and kill me now!  
Exist in silence—we must vow.  
You wait— I hate—it frightens me  
The dreams of hate and misery._

"It was taped up when I got here," Reid explained. "That's why I got worried when you didn't answer your door—I called Hotch."

JJ felt her legs begin to tremble. "Oh, god," she whispered. Within seconds, Will was at her side, still holding onto the broomstick. He stared at the paper wordlessly.

"It's okay," Reid said, putting his arm around her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "The unsubs have been here, obviously while you were home, but they didn't try to hurt you—which means they don't want to try and hurt you."

JJ was embarrassed at the tears that had started to fall—she shook her head back and forth slowly. "No," she whispered. "This is all part of some—some plan. It's all a mind trick, Spence."

"I don't think so," Reid said. "Besides—they'll be on the security cameras, won't they? Hotch is having Garcia check them as we speak."

JJ shook her head back and forth. "Maybe we should move," she muttered to Will.

"Don't be ridiculous," her husband replied, although he too looked visibly shaken. "It's impossible to hide from anyone these days—unless you want to go into the witness protection program, which is absurd—and we've already got all sorts of security around the house—"

"But the unsubs were still able to come here," JJ sobbed, tightening her grip on Will's arm.

"You're being completely irrational," Reid snapped. "If the unsubs had wanted to hurt you, they already would have. We've dealt with much more threatening unsubs more times than I can count."

Both JJ and Will turned to stare at him, shocked at the uncharacteristic harshness in his tone.

Reid seemed to realize he'd made a mistake—however, instead of apologizing, he took out his phone and started texting rapidly. After several moments of painful silence, he muttered, "I've got to go."

"What?" JJ asked, confused. "You just got here. Besides, we should stay together—I'll just get Henry, and we can head over to Morgan's apartment while they get forensic experts on the scene."

But Reid didn't appear to be listening to a single word she was saying—instead, he continued to stare at the door. Distractedly, he reached up and grabbed the piece of paper, narrowing his eyes as he examined it more closely.

"Spence!" JJ moaned, rolling her eyes, "Now your fingerprints will be all over it."

"Oh," Reid muttered, replacing it hurriedly. "Sorry. I just thought—I mean, it probably won't have their fingerprints anyways. None of the others did. I just wanted to—" He broke off and bit his lip. "Nevermind," he muttered. "I don't know."

JJ sighed, then took a step back and appraised Reid critically. She frowned, noticing that he looked somehow thinner and paler than he'd already been—not to mention exhausted. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You're seem much more absent-minded than usual."

"Yeah," Reid muttered. "I'm sick, remember? I just came here, to—well—"

"It's okay," JJ said, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. "I understand."

Reid looked immensely relieved by this. "You do?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "This case has been stressful for all of us. Look—I'll go get Henry, then you can drive us over to Morgan's."

Reid grimaced slightly. "Funny story about that," he muttered, "I'm actually not staying with Morgan anymore."

JJ frowned. "What?" she asked. "Why? What did he say?"

Reid shrugged. "I just…wanted to live by myself again. That's all."

JJ frowned. "But isn't it dangerous?" she asked. "Neither of you should be living by yourselves." She shook her head slowly. "And Morgan is okay with this?"

Reid looked uncomfortable. "I…well, I haven't actually talked to him about it yet. I was going to call him later."

JJ stared. "But—"

Before she could finish her sentence, however, Reid's phone began to ring. "It's Garcia," he muttered, raising it to his ear. "Hello?" There was a long silence. Reid's face remained emotionless. "Are you sure?" he asked eventually.

"What's going on?" JJ asked him. He shot her a wary look, but didn't respond.

"Well, could you track the source?"

There was another silence that lasted at least a minute. Finally, Reid said, "Alright, Garcia. I'll tell them."

"What happened?" JJ demanded. Reid's eyes lingered on his phone for a moment longer, then looked up at her.

"Someone hacked into the security cameras," he said. "They've been offline for the past hour and a half."

JJ stared. "How?" she asked.

Reid shook his head slowly, glancing down at his phone again. "The hacker must have somehow gotten access to Garcia's security network."

JJ stared at him, horrified. "So…it's someone in the FBI?" she asked, disbelievingly. "They would have needed all sorts of classified stuff…"

"Or," Reid said. "He—or she—is an incredibly skilled computer hacker." There was a pause. "Besides," he muttered, "Once you get past all the security, it isn't too difficult to cause a camera to go offline. And all she knows is their location when they hacked the system—whatever equipment they were using has been destroyed by now, and the unsubs themselves are obviously long gone."

JJ put her face in Will's shoulder. "I just want this to be over," she muttered. "What do they want with us?" When she asked the question, a sudden, powerful force of memory washed over her with a surprising momentum—but, as she tried to grasp at it, it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"What does any unsub want?" Reid muttered, his eyes still on his phone. "They're all just different flavors of psycho." When JJ looked down at his phone to see what he was reading, she noticed that he was just flipping back and forth rapidly between different screens. She frowned.

"Are you sure you're alright, Reid?" she asked him. Again, she was overcome by the strange, inexplicable feeling of guilt and concern—but the memory that accompanied it wouldn't come.

"Alright?" Reid asked, still not meeting her eyes, "Of course I'm alright. Why I wouldn't I be?"

**O**

"Aaannnndd the brilliant doctor is forty minutes late."

With growing agitation, Reid hurried forward towards the two figures standing hidden in the shadows. "I got lost," he snapped. "You just _had _to choose the most convoluted location you could think of—"

"I'm sorry," Marland interrupted. "We must have the wrong doctor. The one who is—lest our sources be mistaken—a _genius_?"

Reid tripped slightly as he stumbled towards them. "I can't think straight when I'm coming off of it," he snapped. "And it wore off _twice _as quickly this time. You gave me more the first time."

"Surprisingly," Ellie said, "We gave you _less._"

"You're lying," Reid snapped. He wasn't sure what it was about Ellie's face—perhaps it was the falsified innocence, the jeering giddiness, the infuriating laughter—but some furious monster was swelling inside him, and it filled him with a near irrepressible urge to lunge forward and rip her face apart.

"You seem upset," Ellie said. "Tragically, I've got some more bad news to deliver."

"Like hell you do," Reid spat. "I delivered the stupid poem. I need that—whatsitcalled?—_euphoria_. That's it. Give it to me, or I'll figure out how to get it from someone less annoying."

Marland laughed. "There you go again," he said. "Always assigning _names _to everything."

"It was on the tube!" Reid snapped. "And I don't want _one _dose this time. I want a week's supply."

Ellie and Marland both burst into hysterical laughter simultaneously.

"I'm _serious!" _Reid snapped, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

"Did you hear that, Marland?" Ellie asked, giggling uncontrollably. "He's _serious._"

"Well, _this _has completely changed my outlook on things," Marland replied. "All this time, I thought he was just kidding around with us."

"No, no," Ellie said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. "You _mustn't _joke about this type of thing, Marland. Our friend here—Dr. Reid—is completely, undeniably_ serious."_

Reid made an aggressive movement towards Ellie before stopping himself. His fists were shaking with fury.

"Withdrawal side-effects notwithstanding," Ellie said, giving him an understanding smile, "I know why you're _really _so grumpy—you're afraid you've upset your _girl_friend. You feel all…_guilty _about everything."

"JJ is _not_ my girlfriend," Reid growled, trying to work a smirk into his tone but feeling too angry to do so. "What are you, twelve?"

"One hundred and seventy, actually," Ellie replied, straight-faced.

"We _are _twins," Marland said. "Twins live much longer than average humans."

"No, they don't," Reid snapped.

"Oh, really?" shrieked Ellie. "_Prove _it!"

"Look," Reid said, trying desperately to keep his voice calm, "Just give me the drug and I'll deliver another stupid haiku or limerick or whatever the hell you want. It doesn't matter—I just need it _now_."

"Ah," Marland said, exchanging an amused expression with Ellie. "You see…_about _the drug. My sister _told _you that we had some bad news, and…" he trailed off. "Well, we don't have it."

Reid wasn't exactly sure what it was that caused him to snap—all he knew was that one moment, he had been standing in front of the two twins, and the next moment, Marland was lying on the ground covering his face, and Reid was standing in front of him with his fist in the air.

If anything, this caused Ellie to laugh harder. "Bravo, Doctor Reid," she said, clapping her hands lazily and poking Marland with her toe. "All of the others took a swing at him on the first or second meeting—you're the _only one _who's lasted until the third."

Reid turned towards her.

"Don't be _absurd, _Dr. Reid," she said, widening her eyes. "We _both_ know you wouldn't hit a—"

_Smack. _

Reid just stood there and stared as Ellie was knocked off her feet and onto the ground. Beside her, Marland seemed to have recovered from his blow to the face and pointed at her, chuckling delightedly. "_Finally,_" he said, giving Reid a nod of approval. "I've been wanting to do that for _years._"

Reid just stood there, panting, trying to get himself under control. Swallowing nervously, he said, "There. So _now _you can tell that I'm serious." He folded his arms and glared, trying to give the impression that his actions had been planned as opposed to impulse decisions entirely out of his control.

Ellie got to her feet slowly—there were something vaguely unsettling about her expression. She wasn't smiling, like she usually was—but she didn't look angry, either. It was difficult to explain—almost as if the look of intensity in her eyes was somehow discordant with her face.

Reid was so busy looking at Ellie that he was completely unprepared when Marland's fist swung in from his peripheral vision and smacked him straight in the eye. He staggered, clutching his face and swearing, as Marland said, "Sorry, mate, but I had to do it. Self defense."

Before he had time to think, Reid lunged forward and was suddenly on top of Marland, landing blow after blow in his stomach. Marland covered his face, flailing out defensively with his feet and arms and quaking with frantic laughter the entire time.

After a few moments of this, Reid heard the unmistakable sound of tinkling glass, following closely by an excruciating pain in the back of his head.

As he turned around to face his assailant, he saw Ellie raise her hands in the air and shout, "YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A FILTHY MINDED OLD SKITEBERG!" As he was distracted, Marland wriggled free and the two of them took off down the alleyway, cackling madly.

_"Hey!" _Reid snapped. He shook his head, feeling very dizzy and angry and disoriented. He wondered if he had a concussion. "Is that from A Clockwork Orange?" he muttered, Ellie's shout still ringing in his ears. "Because if it is, that…that _doesn't even make sense!" _

His voice echoed off the falls of the alleyway. The twins had disappeared. Still feeling rather dizzy, Reid got to his feet and leaned against the wall, panting—as he stood there, he felt his confusion and anger mount steadily into panic.

He began to walk in the direction they had disappeared. After several moments, he broke into a run—when he reached the end of the alleyway, he whipped his head in both directions, trying to figure out where they'd gone—but this action just compounded the dizziness, and when he tried to take another step he just ended up on the ground.

Reid could feel his pulse racing—he simultaneously wanted to punch a hole in the wall and put his head between his knees and cry. He opened his phone and dialed Ellie's phone number—it rang once, then informed him that the number had been disconnected. With a frustrated scream, he flung his phone at the wall as hard as he could. Not even bothering to see the extent of the damage, he pushed himself to his feet and began pacing back and forth, his thoughts racing.

_Who cares? It's just a drug. You don't need it._

Even as he thought the words, every fiber of his being surged up and shouted in protest. He started pacing more and more rapidly.

_You should tell Morgan. Tell Morgan and Hotch and JJ what happened, and then they'll catch them and then you can have all the drugs you want._

Reid paused, shook his head, then continued pacing. _But they won't _let _you. They won't _let _you have the drugs. Because they treat you like a kid who can't make his own decisions. They think you're an immature autodidact with addiction problems who can't take care of himself, they think…_

He put his face in his hands. He started talking aloud.

"It's not that I _need _it," he muttered. "I don't need the _drug. _Or the _happiness. _I don't need the _euphoria_. I just need to be _as smart as possible, _and if I don't have the drug then I'm _not _going to be as smart as possible, I'm going to be _less _smart than I could be for the rest of my life—my stupid, useless, pointless life—and that's what they don't understand, because they're _average, _they're not _like _me, they don't _have _to be smart because—because—" He broke off suddenly, silenced by rage and nausea and fear, and let out a scream of pure hatred and fury. His brain pounded painfully in his head—his pulse was beating faster and faster and faster—everything was much too _fast, _but not in the _good _way from earlier—it was a _frightening _fastness, as if his mind had lost control of his body, strapped to a demented and terrifying carousal of impulses and thoughts and instincts and emotions, and his heart was beating _much too fast, _and…

"Dr. Reid?"

Reid froze and whipped around, letting out a shout of surprise. Down at the other end of the alleyway stood a very tall man—almost a head taller than Reid—wearing dark black boots and sunglasses that shielded most of his face. Despite his intimidating appearance, his voice had a polite, albeit solemn tone to it. Reid stared at him for several moments, then shook his head.

"I'm having a bad day, in case you haven't noticed," he spat.

The man took a step forward. "You need to calm down," he said. "You're going to have a heart attack."

Reid blinked once, then started laughing frantically. It was almost as if his body had been taken over by sadistic puppeteer; he didn't _want _to laugh—he didn't _feel _like laughing—but he couldn't help it. "I think I've got another forty or so years before I've got to worry about that," he said, giggling uncontrollably.

The man started walking towards him. "Have you had any coffee today?" he asked gravely.

Reid couldn't stop laughing. He sunk against the wall, trying to support himself despite his shaking knees, then replied, "There has never been any point ever when I have _not _been having coffee." He sunk to the ground, still giggling, yet also feeling as if he were about to cry.

The man looked exasperated. He walked over to Reid and bent down in front of him. "You can't have that drug with caffeine," he said, giving Reid a small smile. "Unless you want to die."

"Me? Die?" Reid asked. "I _can't _die. Hey, why is everything so _funny _all of the sudden?" The anger and sadness from earlier were still present—but his emotions seemed to have lost contact with his body. "Hey, I'm _upset. _Why is everything so _funny?_"

The man was fumbling with something in his pocket. He pulled out a marker, then grabbed Reid's arm and scribbled a string of numbers. He returned the marker to his pocket and pulled out a syringe.

Reid became extremely excited. "Is that it? Is that the drug?" he snapped, reaching for it. "Give it to me."

The man pushed his hand away. "No," he said. "This is so you don't die. Stop moving."

"I already _told _you, I'm not going to—_hey!_" The man jabbed the needle into his arm—immediately, Reid felt his heart rate begin to slow down.

"Hey," he muttered, blinking once or twice, "That isn't funny at _all…_"

The man clapped him on the shoulder. "Once you've regained your senses," he said, "Give me a call." He pointed to the number on Reid's arm. "And this is _our little secret, _right, Dr. Reid? But you know that."

Reid tried to find something to say to the man—but the effects of the drug and the pain in his head and the confusedness of the whole situation made it difficult to think straight. "I'm _smart,_" he said eventually. "Listen—I _am. _Just give me the drug and I'll _show_ you how smart I am."

The man smiled, then clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry," he said kindly. "I know." The man got to his feet and started walking away—and Reid closed his eyes and he disappeared from sight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Soo…I realize it's been like two and a half weeks since I've updated. I'm quite sorry about that. I had to work and go to my college orientation and watch every episode of South Park three times. You know how it goes. Nonetheless, I would absolutely love if all the incredibly awesome people who have read/reviewed in the past would tell me what they think. So…enjoy the chapter! (or don't, I suppose it's your decision.)**

"_Life does not cease to be funny when people die anymore than it ceases to be serious when people laugh." - George Bernard Shaw_

Everything was cold.

Reid squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the pillow over his head. He shivered again, trying to ignore the pounding headache that made it feel like his brain was trying to push itself out through his ears. He pressed his hands to his face and let out a moan of agony.

Off in the distance, he thought he heard a knock on the door.

In a gesture of frustration, he grabbed a pillow off the bed and threw it in the direction of the knock. He pulled the covers closer to his body and shivered again.

There was another knock. He heard a distinctly voice coming from the other end of the door. _"Reid! We know you're in there!" _

Reid couldn't bring himself to move. The prospect of standing was dizzying, agonizing, nauseating. And besides, it was too cold to be summer. _Far _too cold. If he got out of bed, he might freeze to death. He was sure of it.

His visitors knocked several more times, then evidently gave up and left. Once he was sure they had gone, Reid reached again for his phone, staring at the contact he had saved hours ago yet had not been able to muster the courage to dial. Reid tried to inhale deeply to calm himself, but the breath was interrupted by another violent shiver. Gritting his teeth, he hit the send button and dropped the phone onto the pillow.

A man answered after the first ring. "Dr. Reid, I'm assuming?" On the surface, the voice was lighthearted—but there was a dark, intense undercurrent to it.

"I feel like shit," Reid muttered, his tone half-accusatory and half-pleading.

"I'm very sorry," the voice replied. "Is there something you'd like me to do?"

Reid pulled the covers closer. "Who are you?" he asked eventually.

"Who am I?" the man echoed. "Well, there's a tricky question. A scientist, I suppose. Is that really the most pressing question at the moment?" There was a chuckle. "Someone _did_ tell me you had a strange obsession with names."

Reid pondered this for a moment, then asked, "You…know Marland?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Unfortunately," he said. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again…those two are a bit of an experiment gone wrong."

"Experiment?" Reid asked. "What kind of a scientist are you?" Reid paused for a moment, feeling a slowly brewing panic. "What did you give me?"

"Just something to calm your heart down," the man reassured him. "Too many stimulants, Dr. Reid. You've got quite the addictive personality. It's very unhealthy."

Reid gritted his teeth. "It was you, wasn't it?" he snapped. "You're the one…in charge of it all."

The man on the other end laughed. "That was a remarkable leap of intuition, Dr. Reid," he said, his tone friendly, "But no one is ever truly _in charge _of anything, no matter how much they'd like to think they are. Just look at those obnoxious twins—it's impossible to relegate anything they do to fulfill any degree of usefulness whatsoever—a sad truth which I am learning more and more fully each day."

"Why don't you get rid of them, then?"" Reid mumbled irritably, still barley able to think due to the pounding pain in his head.

"These things are rather complicated," the man said. "Sometimes, one finds himself in situations where—"

"Oh, never mind!" Reid snapped, not in the mood to hear a long-winded explanation. "Look—are you the one that's selling the drugs, or not?"

"Selling?" the man sounded rather offended by the word choice. "At what point, Dr. Reid, did we ever ask you for money in return for our product?"

Reid let out an annoyed sigh. "Well, you made me deliver that poem last time," he muttered, "So that's an exchange of services, in a way—"

"Again with the poetry!" the voice snapped. "I swear to god—I'll strangle her. Alright, Dr. Reid, listen—I'm very sorry about that. I should have never subjected you to interaction with those two. How about I come by later, and deliver the product myself?"

Reid was silent for several moments. "You mean…to my apartment?"

There was laughter from the other end. "That's very funny, Dr. Reid," he said, "You're the first customer I've served who didn't immediately agree to that offer."

Reid snorted. "So you're not selling anything," he said, "But you've got 'customers.'"

"Fair point," the man replied. "Perhaps 'customer' isn't the right word."

"So who else have you given it to?" Reid demanded.

There was some more laughter from the other end of the phone. "We've got a lot to talk about, Dr. Reid," he said. "But I would like you to know—really—you're doing me a great service. I'll see you in an hour."

Reid heard the other end of the line go dead—he fell back down onto the pillow, wrapping his arms around his body for warmth. Despite his distrust of the man, he couldn't help but hope that his arrival would bring some sort of respite from his current condition. He closed his eyes, already exhausted from the short conversation—and he was halfway asleep before he realized that he'd never told the man where he lived.

**O**

"Of _course _he's on drugs again."

JJ shot Morgan an irritated look, feeling annoyed and slightly betrayed by his comment. "How could you say that?" she snapped. "If 'strange behavior' was an automatic indication of drug abuse, we'd have committed everyone in the BAU to rehab at least three or four times." There was a pause. "Oh, you know what I _meant._"

"It's strange for Reid," Morgan said gravely. "You haven't been living with him for the past couple of days, JJ. Look—he disappears in the middle of the night, he's got these really happy spells where he won't shut the hell up and then a few hours later he won't get out of his bed—"

"Drug-induced hypomania," Hotch muttered. "The brain acquires a tolerance to the neurotransmitters that are causing the euphoric sensation, and then once it wears off it's already stopped making them, and there's a shortage of…dopamine?" Hotch frowned. "Or is it serotonin? Melatonin? Melanin? Dopatonin?" He scratched his head. "Damnit. I don't remember. Where's Reid when you need him?"

"Great question," Morgan snapped. "Which leads into my next point, JJ—is it considered _normal _ to disappear for an entire day and a half, refuse to answer your door _or _your friends calls, and—"

"But it might not_ be _that!" JJ snapped. "What if he's been kidnapped? Have you ever thought of that?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "He hasn't been kidnapped," he muttered. "Besides, if he was, he would annoy the hell out of the unsubs and they'd get rid of him as soon as possible—he wouldn't last twelve hours, let alone an entire—"

"_Derek!"_

This rebuke came across the room, from Garcia, who was glaring at Morgan with a combination of indignant shock and utmost fury. Morgan folded his arms and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "Look, I'm just as worried as you are. But I _know _Reid, and I _know _he wasn't acting right—and I can't _believe _that's he'd be selfish enough to distract from the case with his personal issues—and he _hasn't _been kidnapped, because he walked around the goddamn apartment building alone at night for god knows how long and nobody bothered him, so—"

"That's _not _the reason," Garcia interrupted haughtily. "We know he wasn't kidnapped because his building manager saw him walk into the building this morning."

"Exactly," Morgan said. "At _five o'clock _this morning—who walks into their apartment building at five-o-clock in the morning?"

"Reid, apparently," Hotch muttered. "Alright, look—I understand you're all worried. But we _do _have a case. Just because we're missing a team member, that doesn't mean we stop doing our jobs. Understand?"

There was a reluctant grumble of assent.

"Great," Hotch muttered. "Garcia—were you able to track the location of whoever hacked into the security cameras?"

"All I know is that they were about a quarter of a mile away from JJ's house when they did it," she muttered. "They used a disposable cell-phone, so I can't track their current location." She shook her head slowly. "And they only used it for twelve minutes. I can't believe they hacked the entire system in twelve minutes." She just stared at it, frowning. "They must have gotten access to the security information somehow—although I don't know _why, _because hacking into the security database would have been ten times harder than hacking into the cameras, in the first place." She glanced at Morgan, as if searching for some sort of reassurance—but Morgan didn't notice. He appeared to be lost in thought, staring off into the distance.

"Keep working on it," Hotch muttered. "Rossi, Morgan—go back to JJ's house and see what you can find. The unsubs might think they left without a trace, but they've been there at least twice now—there has to be something. The forensics people are already looking, but…" he trailed off. "They might not know _where _to look. We know that Reid arrived just after the unsub had planted the poem—they might have seen him coming and taken off." Hotch then nodded at JJ. "You and I can go over to Reid's apartment again," he muttered grudgingly. "He might have seen something. Blake, you stay here and work on the geographic profile because…" he trailed off, nodded again, then said, "Alright. Let's go."

JJ and Hotch walked in silence to the car. It was only after several minutes of driving when JJ decided to speak.

"A bit contradictory."

Hotch blinked, as if his thoughts had been interrupted, then turned towards JJ. "What?"

"Well first, you say, 'We can't worry about Reid anymore. We have to focus on the case.' Ten seconds later, it's 'Let's go visit Reid.'" She shrugged. "Seems a bit contradictory."

Hotch gritted his teeth. "Do you think I _want _to visit him right now? He's skipped work for the past two days. I should fire him."

JJ rolled her eyes. "He's _sick,_" she said. "Since when does missing work for two days obligate a pink-slip? A bit harsh, Hotch. I'd hate to work for you. Oh, wait…"

"It's not just that," Hotch muttered, not cracking a smile. "It's the whole…_drug thing. _I don't want to deal with it again."

"There _is _no drug thing!" she snapped, throwing her arms in the air. "Since when have we decided that Reid is on drugs? You've got to stop listening to Morgan, Hotch. _He _just can't handle living with another person for more than a week. That's why he's not married, you know."

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Alright," JJ muttered, "So maybe I'm being a little defensive. But I know that—whatever _is_ happening to Reid—it isn't his fault."

Hotch glanced at her. "Really? And how do you know this?"

JJ folded her arms. "I just…._know._"

"Does this have anything to do with what happened in the hospital? With that…_guilty _feeling that you won't stop talking about?"

"No," JJ snapped, a little too quickly.

Hotch pulled into the parking lot and the car slowed to a halt. "Well," he said, reaching for the door, "I guess we're going to find out."

**O**

There was a knock on the door.

Reid forced himself to his feet, staggered across the room, and reached for his gun on the opposite table. Letting out another moan, he stumbled towards the door, reached forward, and pulled it open.

Reid stared confusedly at the people in front of him for several moments. "You going to shoot us?" Hotch asked warily, nodding at the gun in Reid's hand. Dazedly, Reid, placed the gun on the table, then turned once again towards his visitors.

"JJ?" he mumbled. "Hotch? What are you doing here?" He scanned the hallway behind them for several moments—but the man he had spoken to on the phone wasn't there.

"We came to see you," JJ said. "We're worried about you, Spence."

"Oh," Reid muttered, unable to stop his eyes from roaming the hallway. "Well—well don't, alright? I'm fine." He gave her a brief smile. "Just—just a cold, or something. I should be back to work soon." He glanced at Hotch. "Sorry—I should have called. I overslept." The words came to him in a daze—it was almost as if Hotch and JJ were from a different world, returning to wake him up from a very strange dream.

"Spence," JJ said, "You're in the same clothes you were in when you visited my house two days ago."

Reid glanced down at what he was wearing. "Am I?" he muttered. "Oh, I—yeah. This is my favorite shirt."

The two of them stared at him grimly.

"Spence?" JJ said eventually, in a small voice.

"What?" Reid snapped.

JJ didn't answer. After several moments of silence, Hotch decided to speak for her.

"You've got blood on you favorite shirt."

Reid looked down at his shirt again—sure enough, there was a fairly large bloodstain that extended from his shoulder all the way down past his stomach. He wasn't entirely sure whether it was his blood, or Marland's blood—but there was no time to think about that now.

"Right," Reid said, trying to act as if the entire situation were completely normal. "I got a nosebleed earlier. I _told _you I was sick."

Hotch glared at him suspiciously—JJ, on the other hand, looked extremely concerned.

"How sick are you?" she demanded, extending an arm towards him. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," Reid snapped immediately, pushing her away. "I'm fine. How is—how is the case going?" He swallowed again nervously, his eyes darting back and forth from JJ to Hotch.

"That's actually why we came here to talk to you," Hotch said. "We wanted to ask if you'd seen anything odd the day you visited JJ's house." Hotch, however, seemed unable to focus on the question, and continued to stare at the bloodstain on Reid's shirt.

"Odd?" Reid asked, trying to ignore his quickening heartbeat. "Well, um—other than the note, no. I was looking at my phone, actually, as I was walking to the door. I didn't notice anything until I went to knock. That's when I saw the poem."

"Right," Hotch muttered. "That's what I figured, but Garcia said…well, the person who left the note must have left less than a minute before you got there."

Reid shrugged once. "Unlucky," he said.

"Yes," Hotch replied.

There was a brief silence.

"I'm probably going to go back to bed," Reid said eventually. "Was there anything else you guys wanted?"

The tension worsened for every moment the question hung in the air.

"You're not on drugs again, right?" JJ blurted out suddenly, as if one impulse. Reid stared at her, shocked.

"What, you mean—you mean Dilaudid?" he stammered, laughing to hide his nervousness. "Is that what you're asking?"

JJ bit her lip. "I'm sorry—I know—but Morgan was—and—well, _are_ you?"

Reid laughed again, his grip on the doorframe tightening significantly. "Of course not," he said. "Why would I want to go through that again?" As he spoke, the pain in his head increased, and he struggled desperately to keep his eyes open and the smile on his face.

JJ laughed, too, looking relieved—Hotch, however, continued to stare at him suspiciously. "You know you could tell us," he said, not joining in their laughter, "If you were."

Reid struggled to hold Hotch's penetrating gaze—but, after one or two seconds, he was unsuccessful, and turned instead towards JJ. "Of course I do," he said. "Where is all this coming from? I think I've got more than enough sick days stored up."

"Yes," Hotch said. "Because you're never sick."

There was another silence.

"Well, I am now," Reid said, beginning to lose patience with the entire façade. "And I really need to go to sleep—alright? I'll keep my phone on. You can…you can call me, if you have any questions about the case."

Finally, Hotch nodded. "Alright," he muttered, sounding resigned. "Feel better."

"Bye, Spence." JJ reached out and pulled Reid into a hug. She pulled back rather quickly, looking alarmed. "Jeez, Spence! You're _cold._" She surveyed him anxiously. "And so _pale—_are you _sure _you don't need to go to the hospital?"

"Positive," Reid said firmly. "I'll see you later, JJ. Hotch." Giving them one last smile—which ultimately felt more like a grimace—he slammed the door shut before either of them could protest further. Pressing his hands to his face, he took several steps forward and collapsed onto the sofa.

A few minutes later, there was another knock.

Reid clenched fistfuls of his hair in agitation. "Go away, JJ," he growled. "I'm trying to sleep."

A familiar voice came from the other side of the door. "It isn't JJ," it said politely. Frantically, Reid pushed himself to his feet and took several steps towards the door.

When he pushed it open, he was confronted with a gun to his head.

"Agh!" Reid shouted, stumbling backwards and tripping over the welcome mat.

"What's the big idea, Dr. Reid?" the man asked. His face was almost completely obscured by a dark hood. "Is there a particular reason why you invited your friends here?"

"What?" Reid stammered, crawling backwards. "I don't—I didn't _invite _them!"

"Is this a trap?" he demanded. "Listen closely, Dr. Reid—if there are any monitoring devices installed in this apartment, you would be well advised to show me their location or I will not hesitate to have both you and your friends and family dead within the hour."

"I didn't invite them!" Reid protested, his voice growing shrill with terror. "They just—they just _came_, and—and I didn't invite _you _either, you know—and you're being very _rude _right now, actually—and—and please don't shoot me, alright?"

The man surveyed him suspiciously for several moments. "Do you want the drug, then?" he asked eventually.

"Do I—" Reid sat up straighter. "Well, _yes, _I do, but I don't want you to _shoot _me either—"

"I'm not going to shoot you," the man grumbled, returning the gun its holster and pulling off the hood. "You frightened me, Dr. Reid—your friends would have seen me if I hadn't recognized their car pulling in—which would have jeopardized the entire operation—"

"Yes, that would've been terrible," Reid muttered distractedly. "Can I have the drug now?"

The man laughed, then sat down cross-legged in front of Reid. "You may," he said. "If you're patient."

Reid bit his lip—he didn't _want _to be patient, but he also didn't want the man to leave, and he also didn't want to get shot. Ultimately deciding to air on the side of caution, he kept his mouth shut and focused on the man.

"You know, it's funny," the man murmured. "I would have actually preferred a drug that _wasn't _addictive—chemically, I mean. But it wouldn't have worked any other way." He grinned at Reid. "You would've never opened that door, I mean."

Reid stared at him. "Are you insulting me?" he asked.

The man laughed again. "No," he said. "All the others acted the exact same way you did, actually—it becomes a biological imperative. Like any other addiction—as you very well know. And yet, there's also a very powerful—perhaps _more _powerful—psychological component that comes with it."

"That's nice," Reid muttered distractedly. "But could we perhaps have this conversation _after_—"

"_Quiet!" _the man shouted, waving his gun at Reid again and laughing as the younger man covered his head with his hands and dove underneath the table. "You see—I know you _want _the drug. It makes you euphoric—I understand. Euphoria is nice. But it's just a side effect." He smiled at Reid. "You _want _the drug because it makes you happy." He leaned in closer. "But you _need _the drug because it makes you smart."

Reid crawled out from under the table, hesitantly. "I'm already smart," he muttered.

The man grinned. "Oh, I know," he said. "There have been plenty of smart people. For example—the girl in your third grade class that got a perfect score on all the spelling tests. _She _was smart. The research librarian at your local library is smart. Your friends—your family—your teammates—they're all _smart._" He paused, then gave Reid a knowing smile. "But they've all got other things," he said. "If they stopped being smart—well, it'd be tough, but they'd make it through. But _you—_well, if _you _weren't smart, what would be left?"

"What's your point?" Reid asked weakly, his head continuing to throb painfully.

"I told you I was a scientist," the man said. "But really, I'm a humanitarian. I'm trying to _help _you, Dr. Reid. And you're wasting your intelligence."

Reid narrowed his eyes. "I'm saving lives," he muttered dully. "Helping people."

"Did you know," the man said, "That when Albert Einstein was eighteen years old, he renounced his German citizenship to avoid military service?"

Reid stared at him. "So?"

"So," the man continued, "At the time, military service was considered a very noble career path—just as _today, _your job is considered a respectable way to serve your community. And serving your country _is _a noble path for most people—_but not for Einstein._"

Reid stared at him. "I'm sorry," he said, "But I really don't see what any of this has to do with my drug addiction."

The man laughed. "This drug allows you to maximize your intelligence," he said. "Think of the things that Newton—Einstein—Tesla—would have invented, if they'd had access to this."

"That's right," Reid said. "That's why I want it."

"But you're not seeing the larger picture," the man continued. "I'm not going to give you the drug and allow you to continue with your everyday life of catching common criminals. It'd be a waste."

Reid sighed. "I see," he sarcastically. "So you go around looking for brilliant people who _you _think are wasting their lives, then use abduction and narcoterrorism to convince them to change career paths?"

"I don't want you to change career paths," the man said. "I want you to come work for me."

Reid laughed. "Right," he said. "Because _you're _the biggest humanitarian of them all. Newton and Einstein would've been _much _better off working for a criminal."

"I break the law because I have to," he said coldly. "The government would have regulated my experiments."

"Because you experiment on _people!"_ Reid shouted. "And it's _your _fault I feel this way right now!"

The man leaned in closer. "It might be my fault," he said. "But I'm the only one who can fix it now—aren't I?"

For once, Reid was silent.

"I'm not a criminal," the man continued. "I'm a scientist. I created the drug—I've tested it—and I want to make it better. I want to make the people _using _it better." He bent down, pulled out a small bottle filled with a translucent, golden colored liquid, then held it in front of Reid's face. "I want to perfect intelligence," he said. "And if that's not a worthy goal—what is?"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Enjoy the chapter! Things get slightly weird, but don't worry—they're going to get a lot weirder.**

"_A man of genius makes no mistakes—his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery." – James Joyce_

"Well, well, well. To what do I owe the ex_treme _pleasure of this surprising visit?"

Reid kept his head to the ground, refusing to make eye contact with the speaker. He glanced somewhat nervously at the man walking beside him. "Just ignore her," the man said softly, staring ahead with placid determination and quickening his pace ever so slightly.

Just as they had passed, Reid was confronted with another familiar voice. "You know, you're being awfully _rude _right now, Dr. Reid. The two of us are pals, aren't we? You shouldn't ignore your friends." Reid pushed passed him and continued walking. "You should at least apologize for hitting me!" cried Marland, his voice fading into the distance.

Reid glanced up at the man again as they passed through the doors— the calm sense of relief he'd originally felt after taking the drug had been replaced by a guilty, festering sort of anxiety. The hallway was very bright, and Reid could see the details of the man's face more clearly than ever—he seemed older than his muscular body powerful voice had indicated—bit older than Hotch, perhaps, but still younger than Rossi. He still hadn't learned the man's name—the opportunity to ask never having presented itself—and ever since they had left the apartment, his intense manner had been replaced by a calm, confident disposition.

They passed through another door—Reid stared around in amazement at the shockingly modern fluorescent lights and metal floors hidden beneath the confines of the old, abandoned warehouse.

"Did you build all of this?" Reid asked.

The man laughed. "Of course not," he said. "We study biochemistry, not architecture."

"Oh," Reid muttered. "Well…where did it come from, then?"

"It's a strange story, actually," the man said, reaching out in front of him for yet another door. "A few decades ago, a group of surprisingly productive environmental activists—well, _hippies_, really—wanted to open up an alternative medicinal clinic. Apparently they valued interior design much more than business tactics, because they went out of business after a few months, but the basement was incredibly well designed, so we were able to install some more modern—_agh!" _The man leapt back in surprise as the door opened before he had a chance to lay a hand on it. He glared at the figure before him. "Don't you have anything _better _to do?"

Ellie grinned toothily. "But what I do I do because I like to do," she said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Have some originality," the man snapped, looking furious yet making no move to push Ellie out of the way.

She peered around his shoulder to smile at Reid. "Marland sends his regards," she said.

Reid didn't answer.

"It really is _excellent _that you've decided to join us here, Dr. Reid," Ellie said. "Not that you had a choice, really—but when things are _presented _as a choice, it makes the whole situation much _pleasanter,_ doesn't it?" She winked at the man. "On a side note, could you ask your blonde friend if she enjoyed my poem?"

"She thought it was terrible," Reid said coldly.

Ellie's gleeful expression turned into one of mock despair. "I guess my mother was right, then," she said tragically. "I really _don't _know how to make friends."

"Go annoy someone else," snapped the man, sidestepping Ellie—whose small stature was only accentuated by his freakish tallness—and beckoning for Reid to follow.

"Message received, boss!" Ellie shouted, throwing the pair of them an overenthusiastic salute. Reid away, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

"How the hell did she get there so fast?" Reid hissed, once they were out of earshot.

The man rolled his eyes. "She knows her way around well," he said. "She probably ran through the fire escape. She did it just to unsettle you." He glanced at Reid and smiled. "I can see that it worked," he said. "The best thing to do is ignore the twins, Dr. Reid—it's all about getting a reaction. If you don't react, you take away their power. They're frustrating as hell, but completely innocuous."

Reid rubbed the back of his head, which was still sore where Ellie had hit him with a bottle several nights ago. "I don't know about that," he muttered. "_Why _did you say they were here, again?"

"I'm somewhat…_responsible _for them," he muttered, looking uncomfortable for the first time since they'd entered the building. "I'll tell you later. Ah, look—we're almost there." The man started to hurry towards the end of the hallway—Reid, however, stopped short and stared after him apprehensively.

"Look—I only _said _I was going to visit. I can leave if I want to, right?"

The man paused for a moment, turned around, then laughed. "You're letting Ellie get under your skin," he said. "Don't do that."

"I'm not," Reid said, "It's just—"

"Your interrogative nature," the man interrupted, "Is precisely what sets you apart from normal men, Dr. Reid."

"Yes, but—" Reid broke off, shook his head once, then said, "It's not because _she _said it—it's just because, I'm not acting how I would normally act—I mean, I _know _that the—that the drug is changing what I would usually, _logically, _choose to—"

"And you're afraid of change?" the man asked.

"Change?" Reid muttered. "No, I'm not—not of _change._ I mean, I _have _had the same job for about ten years, and I _could _have done practically anything else with my life, but it wasn't because I was _afraid. _It was because I was…" he trailed off. He had meant to say "happy," but the word felt strange on his tongue all of the sudden. He couldn't quite remember what exactly _that _type of happiness was, or how it compared to this _new _happiness, or whether or not the two were even comparable, in the first place.

"Not change, then," the man said, rather patronizingly. "How about trust?"

Reid blinked. "What?"

"You don't trust me."

Reid laughed. "I came here with you, didn't I?"

"Well, yes—but you came because of the drug. I'm a means to an end. You don't really trust _me._"

Reid rolled his eyes. "Well," he said, "Why _should _I trust you?"

"I saved your life," he said. "For one thing."

Reid frowned.

"Two days ago?" There was a silence. "When I prevented you from having a heart attack?" His voice took on a mocking tone. "These things are hard to remember, I understand."

Reid folded his arms. "Well, it was _your _fault I nearly died, in the first place," he snapped.

"That might be true," the man said. "But that, Dr. Reid, is where the heart of the matter lies—you should trust me because _I created the drug. _And because _I _was the one who chose to give it to you."

There was a long, stretched out silence—without quite knowing why, Reid felt himself grow more and more irritated with every passing moment. Seemingly taking Reid's silence as some sort of approbation, the man started to turn around again—then, without really thinking, Reid blurted out, "Well what if I didn't _want _it, in the first place?"

The man glanced back at him for a moment or two, burst out laughing, and then stepped through the doorway without a word.

**O**

"We're closing at ten!"

JJ glanced at her watch—she had five minutes. The small shop was empty save the cashier—who had just spoken—and a janitor. "Sorry," she muttered to the teenager at the register, "Can I have a cappuccino with a shot of espresso?"

"I don't know," the kid said, "_Can_ you?"

"I swear to God, Jason," muttered the janitor from the corner, "You make that joke one more time, I'll smash your head through the counter."

"_Through _the counter?" Jason asked, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you mean _into _the counter?" As he was speaking, JJ heard the door behind her open. "Hey! You two!" Jason shouted at the newcomers. "We're closing at ten!"

"Can you please just give me my coffee?" JJ asked wearily.

"I don't know," Jason said, glancing impishly at the janitor, "_Can—"_

"Don't be alarmed, mate," said a voice from behind her, "But I think she's going to kill you unless you make her some coffee."

Jason cast an annoyed look at the speaker, then turned around grumpily to make the coffee. JJ turned to thank the speaker—who appeared to be another teenager—however, he spoke before she could get a chance.

"Hiya blondie."

JJ frowned—there was something vaguely familiar about him, yet she couldn't quite place it. She glanced briefly towards his companion—hoping it would help jog her memory—and then, suddenly, her blood froze.

"Ellie," she whispered.

The girl smiled at her. "I'm actually quite flattered that you remember me," she said. JJ took a step away from them, her hand scrambling for her phone. "Did you get my poem?" With a jolt of panic, she realized she had left it in the car.

"Of _course _she remembers us," the boy—_Marland—_replied. "We're all good friends. Aren't we, blondie? I like you a lot better than your _smart_ friend, I have to say. He was a bit pushy at times."

"Stay away," JJ said, trying to hide the panic in her voice. "What— what are you doing here?"

"Well," Ellie said, taking a step towards her, "We were given orders to—and I'm quoting here—'go annoy someone else.'"

"How did you find me?" JJ demanded.

"We just wanted some coffee," Marland said, his eyes widening innocently. Before he could get any closer, however, JJ's hand landed on her gun. She whipped it out and pointed it straight at Marland's head. "Stay away from me," she hissed again, her voice firmer this time.

It was at this point that Jason, having finished making the coffee, decided to turn around. "Jesus Christ!" he shouted, promptly dropping the coffee and ducking underneath the counter.

"Somebody help us!" Marland shouted, waving his arms at the janitor. "She's got a gun! Call the police!"

"No, _don't _call the police!" Ellie shrieked. "If she knows the police are coming, she'll kill us all!" The janitor froze with his hand halfway towards his pocket, then took out his phone and slid it across the floor towards JJ.

"_I'm _not the threat here," JJ snapped. "They—"

"You can take all the money you want," Jason the cashier called from underneath the counter. "Just take the whole register, I don't care!"

"She's telling the truth," Marland interrupted loudly. "She _isn't _trying to rob you."

"That's right," Ellie said. "She's here to settle a personal vendetta."

"No, I'm _not, _I just—"

"Don't try to deny it!" Marland shouted, throwing his arms into the air. "This is just _like _you, JJ!"

"You three _know _each other?" Jason gasped, obviously afraid that he now had three psychotic gunmen in his coffee shop.

Marland laughed. "Oh, if only it wasn't so," he said.

"You just couldn't let it go, could you?" Ellie demanded. "You just couldn't accept the fact that Marland is _happier _with me!"

"What?" JJ asked, glancing back and forth in confusion. "What are you—"

"She's jealous of our love," Marland informed a terrified-looking Jason. "See this black-eye I have? She attacked us three weeks ago when we were coming home from our first date."

"You two are _twins_!" JJ shouted.

"You _see?_" Ellie cried, pointing an accusatory finger at JJ. "She's delusional!"

"You understand why I couldn't stay with you, right?" Marland said, taking a careful step towards JJ. "Not after what you did to Ellie's parakeet."

"Oh, _why, _Crackers?" Ellie wailed. "_Why?_"

"Wh-what did she do to Crackers?" Jason stammered.

"Nothing! There _is _no Crackers!" JJ shouted, deciding to take control of the situation. "Hey, _you—_that's right, you with the phone. Could you slide it a little bit closer to me?"

The janitor moved quickly to do her bidding—however, after he had taken his first step, Ellie shrieked, "DON'T DO IT, MISTER! IT'S A TRAP!," sending the terrified man scuttling back into the corner.

"It would never have worked out," Marland continued, placing a consoling hand on JJ's arm. She shook him off in disgust. "There was too much of an age difference."

"It's true," Ellie said. "But it doesn't have to end here, JJ. You can find someone. There's always hope."

"Yeah, JJ," Jason echoed, poking his head out from behind the counter once again. "There's always hope."

"Be _quiet!" _JJ shrieked, almost pointing the gun at Jason before she realized what she was doing. "Look—I have a husband and a son and I'm an _FBI _Agent, and these two abducted me and drugged me and sent threatening poetry to my home—and I just need to get my supervisor here so that he can _arrest _them—just _give _it to me—" When the janitor failed to move, JJ let out an irritated sigh and turned to grab the phone.

The instant her back was turned, she heard the patter of feet as Marland and Ellie sprinted for the door. "Hey! _Stop!_" she shouted, pointing her gun at them in an effort to halt their departure—but it was too late. She rushed towards the door—by the time she had arrived, however, they had disappeared into the night.

"Damnit," JJ hissed, storming across the café to grab the phone from the ground. She paced back and forth as she dialed the number. "Hotch—it's JJ. The people who attacked me—_yes, _a boy and a girl, both of them—they just ran out of the coffee shop I'm in."

There was the briefest of pauses. Then, Hotch said, "I'll send police to your location."

JJ pocketed the phone, then turned again towards Jason, letting out a sigh. "You can come out," she said. "I was _telling _the truth—maybe if you'd listened to me, we could've stopped them from getting away."

Instead of calming him down, however, JJ's words only seemed to alarm Jason further. "Please don't shoot me, miss!" he cried desperately, still hiding behind the counter. "I've got a wife and kids back home!"

JJ frowned at him. "How old are you—sixteen?"

There was a brief silence. "Well, I _could _have a wife and kids, someday," he muttered sheepishly.

JJ rolled her eyes, pocketed the gun, then headed for the door. "Stay here," she called before stepping outside. "The FBI might want to ask you some questions."

**O**

"Don't mind them, Dr. Reid."

Reid stared, simultaneously disturbed and intrigued, at the four men sitting in the room. They were all deathly pale and grinning widely.

"Who are they?"

"Don't mind them. Let's keep walking."

One man—who seemed the youngest of the group, although still older than Reid by several years—leapt to his feet and hurried over to shake Reid's hand.

"I'm a composer," he said.

Reid edged away from him. "Okay," he said.

"I've got a composition written entirely in 15/8," he said, still grinning broadly. "It's only four hours long. Do you want to hear it?"

"Um," Reid said, taking a step away, "Maybe later."

"I've written two-hundred and seventy-three compositions," he shouted, as the two of them hurried out of the room. "I can play twenty-three instruments. Twenty-four if you count the harmonica."

"Come on, Dr. Reid. You're not staying here." Reid followed the man out of the room, glancing back once or twice.

"I'm not _staying _anywhere," Reid muttered, once they were out of earshot. "You said—you said that you'd give me the drug, and I could go home."

The man laughed. "You're so _particular _about your word choice, Dr. Reid," he said. "Ah, here we are—just wait in here, and I'll go get it for you."

"About that," Reid said, eyeing the door nervously. "Look, the last time—the last couple of times that I used the drug, it wasn't quite…the _same _as the first time I used it. Is that…" he trailed off. "I understand how tolerance works, and everything, but is there any way to…to fix that?"

The man laughed. "We've already taken that into account, Dr. Reid," he said. "You've barely been given a quarter of a dose so far—and that's adding up _everything _that you've taken."

Reid blinked. "A—what?" he asked. "So each time you've given it to me, I've taken…a third of a quarter of a dose?"

"Don't worry," the man said. "I just wanted to wait until you were _here_ before we gave you a full dose—it would have been dangerous, otherwise."

"Dangerous?" Reid asked. "Why?"

"Well, you saw what happened with the caffeine," he said, already opening the door. "You've always got to be extra careful about these sorts of things—besides, you never know how you might react."

"React?" Reid asked. "What does that mean?"

The man laughed again. "We can talk when I get back," he said, swinging the door open. "Go ahead—just wait in here."

Reid took one or two steps inside the room, where two other men—about the same age as the composer he'd met earlier—were sitting at a table. One man was typing furiously on a computer—the other man was simply staring off into space. As Reid took a step closer to them, the door behind him swung shut.

Reid glanced back at it nervously. "That door isn't locked, is it?" he asked.

Neither of them answered him.

Reid poked the man staring off into space—he let out a yelp of surprise and whipped his head towards Reid.

"Who are you?" he snapped. "When did you get here? What do you want?"

"Whoa!" Reid shouted, holding up his hands. "I was just—I was just wondering if the door was locked."

The man started laughing—it was a good thirty seconds before he stopped. "You would be amused," he said, "If you were able to appreciate the miraculous redundancy of your query."

"Would I?" Reid snapped, irritated. "And why is that?"

"If there were a _need _to lock the doors, you wouldn't be here in the first place."

"Oh," Reid muttered. "Well—I guess. It just seemed…" he trailed off, gazing at the man with the computer. "What is he writing?"

"I'm not entirely sure," the first man said. "I think it's a novel where every sentence has two meanings."

Reid raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said, "Like _Finnegan's Wake, _then?"

The man at the computer stopped typing—then, slowly, he raised his bloodshot eyes to Reid's face and glared.

"No," he said harshly, each word laced with venom. _"Not _like _Finnegan's Wake._"

Reid raised his hands defensively. "I'm sorry that I tried to compare you to one of the greatest authors of all time."

Robert didn't look very forgiving. "'One of,'" he muttered derisively, then went back to typing furiously. Reid turned to his original companion.

"Um," he said. "Is he usually like that?"

The first man shrugged. "'Usually' is a relative term," he said, "And, in terms of definitive value is, in its essence, entirely useless." He paused. "But, to answer your question—yes."

"What's your name, then?" Reid asked.

"I'm Michael," he said. "And you are…" he frowned. "Is your name Percy?"

Reid laughed. "No," he said. "My name is Spencer."

"Oh," the man muttered. "Same thing."

"Not really."

Michael looked rather offended. "Well you _seem _like a Percy, _that's _all," he muttered, acting as if the entire misunderstanding were Reid's fault.

"Right," Reid muttered. "Speaking of names—that _guy _that brought me here—"

Michael started laughing again. "Oh, _him,_" he said. "You'll never learn his name."

Reid blinked. "What? Why not?"

"Why, because you'll never ask it."

Reid frowned. "How do _you _know?"

"Because you _won't,_" Michael said, shrugging. "Well, me—_I _know his name, of course. I know _everyone's _name."

"You thought my name was Percy."

Michael glared at him. "Well, maybe it is," he said. "Maybe it is, and you just don't know it." He surveyed Reid suspiciously for several moments. "I see," he said. "You're new here—aren't you?"

Reid shrugged once. "Well, sure," he said. "But I'm not _staying. _I'm just—visiting."

Michael started laughing even harder this time. "Oh, yes," he said. "Of _course _you are."

"Why does everyone keep _saying _that?" Reid snapped. "Why does everyone—" Reid broke off as the door behind him opened suddenly. His unnamed companion poked his head in.

"Hello, Spencer. You can come out in a moment, but—ah, I see I've caught you in the middle of a conversation. Carry on." The door swung shut.

Reid was already getting to his feet, desperate to get away from both Michael and Robert. "I don't know who you think you are," he snapped at Michael, "But you were wrong about my name, so I'm sorry if I'm not too keen to trust your judgment. I _am _just visiting."

"Right, of course," Michael said, as Reid turned away. "See you tomorrow, Percy."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: THANK YOU FOR READING. AND EVEN MORE FOR REVIEWING. YOU'RE ALL AWESOME. YOU SHOULD FEEL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELVES. SERIOUSLY, I LOVE YOU. ON AN UNRELATED NOTE, MY CAPS LOCK IS ACTUALLY BROKEN RIGHT NOW—I THINK I HIT THE SHIFT KEY TOO MANY TIMES AND NOW IT IS GETTING ITS REVENGE ON ME. OR BECAUSE I JUST GOT A NEW LAPTOP AND DON'T KNOW HOW TO USE IT. IT'S PROBABLY ALL BECAUSE OF WINDOWS 8. SOMEHOW. FUCK YOU, WINDOWS 8. ANYWAYS, I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE CHAPTER, WHICH WILL INEVITABLY BE WRITTEN ENTIRELY IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BUT MAYBE THAT WILL SOMEHOW ADD TO THE GRANDIOSITY Of the andddd it's fixed. That's a bit of a letdown, actually. Oh, well. I'm not changing it now. Hopefully, by now, you have learned to skip over the author's notes entirely and go directly to the story to save yourself time, hassle, and that dull, nagging headache that you get sometimes from reading incoherent internet ramblings. If you haven't by this point, then I suppose you'll never learn, and there's simply nothing to be done for you. **

**You people never learn.**

"_It is only in drugs or death that we see anything new, and death is just too controlling." –Chuck Palahniuk_

_Dear JJ, Morgan, Hotch, Rossi, Garcia, Blake—_

_In case any one of you decide to come to my apartment within the next couple of days—which, if your previous behavior is any indication, you will—you can tell Hotch that I'm taking a short leave of absence. There's always a slim chance that I'll be back before you notice I'm gone—which is why I didn't want to call, and cause unnecessary hysteria—but, under the very likely circumstance that you appear at my apartment uninvited and, naturally, decide to break in, I was hoping to put your mind at ease. No, I haven't been kidnapped. I'm not using heroin, I'm not dying, and I haven't lost my mind. I'll call you when I get back._

_Your friend,_

_S. Reid_

"It just doesn't make any sense."

JJ stared at the note on the table, shaking her head back and forth slowly in bewilderment.

"What doesn't make sense about it?" Morgan snapped. Unlike JJ—who had been unable to tear her eyes from the note—Morgan hadn't stopped pacing back and forth across the apartment since they'd arrived. "I told you, JJ—drugs."

"But he says he's _not _on drugs."

Morgan paused momentarily to turn and glare at her. "You're right," he said. "Addicts never lie. If he _says _he's not on drugs—well, I guess we've got to believe him."

"But _Reid _doesn't lie," JJ muttered. Morgan stared at her. "Well, not that he _doesn't _lie," she said, backpedalling, "But he goes out of his way to say that he isn't using heroin. I know addicts lie, and I know that Reid is perfectly _capable _of lying, but it just seems…" she trailed off. "It seems like something else is going on."

"It _seems _like it," Morgan muttered. "Foolproof evidence. Excellent."

"Fine," JJ snapped. "Say it _is _drugs—why disappear? He's perfectly capable of using drugs alone, at home, in his apartment—as we all very well know."

Morgan stopped pacing again, folded his arms, then sighed. "So what _is _going on?" he asked. "And why wouldn't he tell us?"

JJ shrugged. "Well," she muttered. "He didn't tell us about his mom's schizophrenia until she became directly involved in a case—he didn't tell anyone about his _original_ drug problem for awhile—not even Gideon—and he didn't even tell us about Mauve until she was threatened by a serial killer…"

Morgan frowned. "So…he's either hiding a second schizophrenic relative, using drugs, or…has another girlfriend?"

"My point," JJ continued, rolling her eyes, "Is that he's a private person—more private than we'd like to think. Maybe something _is _going on—something personal_—_that he doesn't want us to know about. And…well, maybe we should respect that." Even as she spoke the words, however, JJ didn't believe them—images of Reid from yesterday flooded her mind, and the familiar sense of guilt and fear returned with a rush.

"Either way," Morgan muttered. "We should tell Hotch. Eventually Reid is going to run out of sick days—and he'll _have_ to come back if he wants to keep his job."

**O**

Garcia dialed the number again.

Voicemail.

She dialed it a third time. Waited.

Nothing.

Swearing in frustration, she slammed the phone back down. "Since when does Derek ignore my calls?" she snapped, glaring angrily at the room around her. After a moment or two of deliberation, she sighed, reached forward, and dialed Hotch's number instead.

"What is it, Garcia?" Hotch sounded impatient—she could hear Jack's voice in the background.

"Look, sir, I know it's late, and I know you're with Jack right now, and you probably don't want to be bothered, but—when JJ and Morgan called and told me about Reid leaving, I did a little bit of research, and—well, it's nothing conclusive, sir, and I'm certainly not a profiler, but—"

"Is it urgent, Garcia?" Hotch asked abruptly.

There was a tense, drawn out pause. Garcia bit her lip. "That's just it, sir," she said eventually. "I don't know."

**O**

"Just tell us, Garcia."

"Well, sir," she said, glancing first at Hotch then at the rest of the team, "I'm not sure if it's anything—but I couldn't stop thinking about Reid disappearing, and I just—well, it's _probably _nothing, but—"

"Garcia," Hotch said, raising his eyebrows. "We already know that you're brilliant. You don't need to justify yourself to us."

She sighed. "Robert Quincy," she said, pointing her remote at the screen. The face of a young man appeared. "Wilbur Douglas, Michael Stephenson, Leonard Wilkins, and…" she trailed off, then said, "Jeanette Adams."

Hotch frowned. "Um," he said. "Yes, so—what about them?"

"They've all gone missing in the past twelve years," she said. "They were all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, three out of five live in or around this city, they all had a history of drug use, and—"

"Wait," Morgan interrupted. "If they all had a history of drug use…wouldn't it make sense for them to disappear?"

"Yes," Garcia said, "But here's the thing—they had all stopped using. Some of them for years."

"But you couldn't possibly _know—_"

"Robert Quincy," she said, pointing at the third picture. "He was an author of five books and the leading journalist at a major newspaper. I'd say that an addiction to _dextromethorphan—_which, because Dr. Reid isn't here to beat me to it, I will inform you is the trip-inducing ingredient in _cough syrup_—would have hindered his career significantly. When he disappeared, he had been clean for seven years, and was married with a child on the way."

"So, what?" Blake asked. "Maybe the pressures of his life got to him."

"Maybe," Garcia said, "But it's all the same—Leonard Wilkins was an acclaimed musician and virtuoso, Jeanette Adams was working on her doctorate in neurobiology at Yale University, Michael Stephenson was an author _and _a professor at the ripe old age of twenty-nine—"

"So what you're saying," Rossi said, "Is that they all decided to abandon their happy careers and family lives for the drugs they'd been clean from for years?"

"It's sad," Morgan muttered, shrugging. "But I don't see how this has anything to do with the case."

"But not necessary for the drugs," Garcia said. "And it might not have been their _decision _at all. There's a reason why they were all so successful—each of them had a reported IQ of 150 or greater—except the musician guy, but he was also a child prodigy, taught himself to play the piano at age three, was writing compositions by age six—"

"So what you're saying," Hotch said, "Is that every one of these people was a certified genius?"

"And an expert in their field of work," Garcia said. "But then it gets scarier—before they disappeared, they all left notes telling their families they'd be back in a couple of days."

There was a long silence.

"And," Garcia muttered, seeming to have lost most of her intensity, "There was one guy—Charlie Baker—who fit the same type as all the others. IQ of 166, working for NASA at age 23, former addiction to cocaine, just like Michael—disappeared six years ago…and was found dead eight months ago three miles from here."

"Oh, God," JJ muttered.

"Why weren't the police notified?" Hotch demanded. "If there's a serial killer in our area—"

"But it wasn't," Garcia whispered. "It wasn't serial—it was only _one _death, and it wasn't murder, either. Cause of death—" she clicked again, so that Charlie Baker's picture zoomed to the center of the screen. "Was a drug overdose."

"What drug?" Hotch demanded.

"They were unable to identify it. Eventually, the coroner decided that it was a mix of several different narcotics. It wasn't exactly a top priority—nobody even identified his body until months later. He was just another dead junkie…"

"Garcia," Hotch muttered, shaking his head slowly, "There might _be _something going on here—but how do we know it has anything to do with the current case? As strange as this pattern is, I don't really see any evidence of criminal activity."

She folded her arms. "I may not be a profiler," she said. "But I knew there was something going on with Reid. In the first poem, the unsub focused on Reid's intelligence—if he were being targeted for any reason..." she trailed off. "So, I cross-referenced high-IQs with disappearances in and around this area." Believe it or not, there are only so many doctors, authors, professors, and researchers that can go missing before a pattern starts to become obvious." She paused. "To someone with the right tools, that is."

"That's why they abducted me," JJ muttered. Everyone turned to look at her. "It was a distraction," she said. "To get us to take our focus off of Reid and onto me. Those two kids—Ellie and Marland—they aren't the unsubs. _They're_ a distraction." She turned towards Hotch. "Right after Reid disappeared, they showed up again. Think about it—instead of checking in on Reid, who we'd last witnessed in an immensely sleep-deprived state with _blood _on his shirt, we were all busy interviewing a brain-dead teenager and a janitor at a coffee shop."

"It's all a distraction from the real target," Hotch muttered. "But if they _are _targeting Reid…well, _how _are they targeting him? The note goodbye note _was _written by him—it's his handwriting, it_ sounds _like him, and if he'd wanted to leave a hidden message for us, he would've been more than capable, as we all know. And he _says _he's going to be back in a couple of days, but…" he trailed off. "If there is someone linked to these disappearances, why would they have them all promise to be back in a few days? Why not say they're leaving for good? You'd have a lot less family members searching for their missing relatives."

"It's like you said," JJ replied. "Reid _did _write the note—just like all the other victims. Because they _thought _they were going to be back in a few days—until they weren't."

"So how did they do it?" Rossi muttered. "Why would all of these young people—brilliant, talented, successful, ambitious—what on earth would convince them to drop everything, give up their lives, their families, their careers—and simply disappear?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Morgan said. He was the only one of the team who had remained seated throughout the entire discussion. "I've been saying it all along." When no one spoke, he raised his eyebrows. "Drugs."

There was a long, drawn out silence.

"Not the drugs they were originally addicted to," Morgan said. "Like cough syrup or heroin—a _new _drug. That guy—Baker—whatever they found in his bloodstream that they couldn't identify. That's it."

"But what's the point?" Rossi said eventually. "What is the unsub _doing _with all of these young men?"

"And women," Blake interjected.

Hotch walked over to the screen and stared. "There are too many possibilities," he muttered. "We have to rethink the entire profile—not one or two unsubs, but _many _unsubs, some of whom might be indoctrinated victims, and all of whom are probably extremely intelligent. If there are drugs involved, we have to find out what's in them and what makes it so addictive—and we can't rule out the possibility that the unsubs are addicted or at least dependent on the drug, as well. We have to flood the media with sketches of those two teenagers, because even if _they _aren't the unsubs, they sure as hell are connected—and, finally, we have to find Reid and get him home before he ends up like Charlie Baker."

**O**

Reid pounded his fist on the door.

"_Hello? Is anyone there?"_

He was met with silence.

"_Hello? Is anyone—"_ Reid broke off suddenly, inhaling frantically. His heart was beating fast—_too _fast—so fast, in fact, that he could practically hear the pounding, as if it were coming not from his chest but from somewhere deep inside his head.

He started pacing back and forth. "I don't remember how I got here," he mumbled to himself. "I don't know—don't remember—" He wasn't sure who he was addressing, nor how he knew they were listening—but he knew all the same. "LET ME OUT OF HERE! _PLEASE! _MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT _STOP!"_

Somewhere—off in the distance, as if it were coming at him from a long tunnel—a voice spoke to him. "You'll be alright, Spencer," the voice said. "Both you and I know this is the safest place for you right now."

Reid couldn't help it—he started to cry. Not from sadness—he was too confused and panicked to reflect on the solemnity of his situation, if any existed at all—but from sheer, unadulterated terror. "I'm going to die," he whispered, more to himself than to the bodiless voice. "My heart—my head—the walls—it's all closing in on me. I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die," the voice replied, with the slightest hint of a chuckle. "Just be patient, Dr. Reid."

Reid could barely hear the voice over the pounding of his heart. "How much longer?" he demanded, his voice already hoarse from all the shouting.

But there was no answer.

"_How much longer?" _he shrieked, his voice cracking. "How much longer? _How much longer? PLEASE!"_

But still, he was met by silence.

Hands trembling, Reid clasped his knees to his chest with all of his might, unable to deter the feeling that his heart was going to explode in his chest and his brain was trying to push itself out through his ears. Time itself felt fragile and broken—he couldn't tell if it had been several minutes or several days. He collapsed onto the ground, shivering and sweating and shaking uncontrollably, random jolts of adrenaline causing his body to spasm suddenly and painfully without his control.

But the most terrifying thing was the blankness—he couldn't remember why he was here and he couldn't remember why he couldn't remember or whether or not he was supposed to remember or what remembering was, exactly. Was fear a memory? Was he afraid because he didn't remember, or afraid because he did?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, unsure why he was apologizing but simultaneously feeling the need to apologize. "I'm sorry, Morgan. I'm sorry, JJ. I'm sorry Hotch, and Blake, and Rossi, Garcia, and, and…" he trailed off. "This is all my fault," he whispered. "I want to go home. I'm sorry."

His words were met by nothing but the white blankness of the walls and the eerie, muted silence of the room. Off in the distance—either from somewhere quite far away, or from somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind, he thought he heard the sound laughter—but eventually, it too died away, and the numbing, dreadful silence filled the room one more.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: If you left a review—you are the embodiment of human beneficence. Anyways-this chapter is weird. Reid is on drugs. The twins are annoying. You know—the usual. I hope you like it!**

_"The status of a drug is irrelevant to a drug addict. If you're a drug addict, you're getting drugs. That's it. So in way, it's probably best to make it simple." –Russell Brand_

"It's nice. Isn't it?"

Michael was smiling. Reid tried to smile back—the muscles in his face were strangely tight and resistant to the movement. The feeling itself was so fundamentally innate—the accompanying smile was almost redundant.

Reid simply nodded. His eyes followed a speck of dust as it drifted lazily across the room—yet he followed it with such intensity of gaze, such exact and careful focus, that its movement seemed to be of profound importance.

There were three hundred eighty-one tiles on the wall. Michael's head impeded one hundred and four of them—and the wall behind him contained three hundred twenty four on account of the pipe in the bottom-left corner. Reid wasn't sure why he had counted the tiles—but he had been waiting for twenty-seven minutes and eight seconds and it obviously would have been physically impossible to sit idly and wait. The whole world seemed vibrant and fascinating and invasive—each moment was spent observing, analyzing, ruminating. Reid blinked once—rapidly—then opened his eyes again and continued to stare. Michael's smile contained a thousand details—the room around him contained one thousand, six hundred and forty-four tiles. The sense of frantic, giddy competence was so overwhelming that he almost felt dizzy.

"The first time is the nicest," Michael said, still smiling. "Everything is beautiful."

Reid blinked again. He continued to stare—he couldn't tear his eyes away from Michael's face. "Not beautiful," he muttered. "Everything is…" He trailed off—the room was filled with a ringing silence. The right word seemed, somehow, utterly and undeniably essential. Each word came out with reluctance—with reverence. Finally, he said, "Everything is interesting. Everything is…" There was another pause. "Important."

"Yes," Michael said slowly, nodding his approval. "Everything _is _important, Percy. And also quite irrelevant."

Reid laughed—he wasn't sure why. "My name isn't Percy," he said. "My names is…" he paused for a moment. "Spencer. Spencer Reid."

"Your name is irrelevant."

Reid contemplated this for several moments. "So what?" he asked. "It's still my name."

Michael laughed again. "An attachment to names betrays great insecurity," he said. "Humans are the only species on earth who have a compulsion towards classification. No man truly knows another—a name offers the illusion of intimacy, just as classification offers the illusion of knowledge."

Reid stared at Michael, transfixed by his words in the same way he had been transfixed by the tiles. "Maybe so," he said eventually. "But my name still isn't Percy."

A door opened suddenly—the influx of stimuli was so rapid, so overwhelming, that Reid leapt to his feet. Reid stared at the man in the door wordlessly—_him—_he hadn't seen him since last night. Reid pushed the memory away-It felt like a lifetime.

"Ah! I'm sorry," the man said. "I've startled you."

Reid stared at him blankly, remembering Michael's words from the other day. "What's your name?" he asked suddenly, before he was able to stop himself.

The man laughed. "You'll have to forgive me," he said. "I've been terribly rude—I never even introduced myself!" He shook his head sadly. "I'm John. It's hard to believe that after all this time, I still hadn't—"

"He's lying!" This protest came from Michael—who, despite his calm and confident nature from earlier, appeared significantly distressed. "That's not his name! Don't listen to him, Percy!"

The man laughed. "Now, Michael," he said. "I asked you to impose a _calming_ influence on Dr. Reid. Let's not get started with this ridiculous naming business again."

Instead of listening to John, Michael leapt to his feet and grasped Reid on the shoulder. Reid flinched away, but Michael refused to let go.

"He's lying," Michael whispered. The Michael from several moments ago appeared to have disappeared completely—the new Michael stared at Reid with desperation, with anger, with hatred. "He's a liar," he whispered. "He's got you now, Percy. He's a liar and he's got you and you'll never escape—"

"Alright, then!" John said, grabbing Reid's arm and half-guiding, half-yanking him away from the rambling Michael. He slammed the door shut the moment they had exited the room—however, Reid could still hear Michael shouting from behind the doorway.

"Anyways," John said, with the same pleasant tone he'd used when introducing himself. "Shall we get started?"

Reid shook his head back and forth slowly. "Get started….with _what?_" he asked.

John laughed. "'With what?'" he repeated, in a tone that was mocking and friendly at the same time. "Why, I thought I'd already told you."

Reid shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "Not exactly."

John smiled. "I thought it would've been obvious," he said. "You're quite…well, you're quite _special, _Dr. Reid—as you already know—and all the others are special of course, in their own ways—but they simply _demonstrate _the success of the drug."

"I demonstrate the success of the drug," Reid said hurriedly, grasped by a crippling fear that his current state of being was about to be ripped away from him. "It's taking some getting used to, sure but I'm _much _smarter now than I was before—_honestly—_"

"Relax," John said, laughing again. "I'm speaking, of course, of _my _line of work—biochemistry. When I said that I wanted you to work for me, I didn't mean in the same way as all of the others. It does take—as you must have already realized—a certain level of extraordinary intelligence to develop such a substance, in the first place."

Reid smirked. "Very modest," he said, unable to help himself.

Instead of taking offense, John laughed again. "Perhaps not," he said. "But I believe, Dr. Reid, that you and I have much more in common than you think. Like you, I was always different than my peers—some would say superior, certainly, but I believe that _different _is a more appropriate word. Not because of political correctness—simply because intelligence is _not _superiority. Perhaps, in terms of production value, it is—the greatest music, the greatest literature and—most importantly—the greatest science, are produced by the best and the brightest. But humans are not the sum of what they create—when observing human life, one must think first and foremost of happiness. It is a proven fact—and a statistic that I'm sure you're aware of, Dr. Reid—that the happiest lives are lived by those of average intelligence."

Reid nodded slowly. "Sure," he muttered, "The further an individual deviates from the standard IQ of one hundred, the more susceptible they are to depression, as well as other types of mental illness."

John smiled. "My goal—which, as I think you will agree, I have accomplished quite thoroughly—was to both maximize the potential of certain….talented individuals, and to maximize their happiness as well. And that's why, Dr. Reid, I brought you here to work—not _for _me—but _with _me."

Reid blinked. "What, you mean—help you with the drug?"

John's eyes were alight with genuine excitement. "With everything," he said. "Why do you think I would take such a risk—targeting a member of the FBI?"

Reid shrugged. "Well," he muttered. "I don't actually know."

"I first encountered your name when your team—the behavioral analysis unit—made headlines after supposedly solving a missing-persons case that had been unsolved for years. I was concerned—and understandably so—that your team, especially given its location in connection to our headquarters, might decide to unearth the details of my organization. Many of our members—having, naturally, expressed a desire to withdraw from their families to be further immersed in their work—are, unsurprisingly, on missing-persons lists across various states and cities."

Reid couldn't help but laugh. "So," he said. "You thought that recruiting me would—what? Make my team _less_ likely to notice you?" It was the first time the team had crossed Reid's mind since the distant memory of agony from the night before—he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and focused on John instead.

"I began researching your team," John said. "And the more I learned about you, the more fascinated I became. A high school graduate at the age of twelve—PhDs in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering—an IQ of 187—eidetic memory—after spending years searching for the greatest minds to which I could offer my product, you can surely understand my fascination. I immediately dismissed the notion of recruitment—you were an agent of the very unit of the FBI I had specifically been trying to avoid. And yet, as time went on, I couldn't put you out of my mind—how could I let you waste your life, when you could be doing so much more?"

"How indeed," Reid muttered, recalling the conversation with John from his apartment.

"And then it occurred to me," John said. "As celebrated as your team is—where would it be without you? The rest of the members are far from incompetent, I'm sure—but _you, _Spencer, _you _were the only truly _extraordinary _member."

"Um," Reid said, feeling the need to interject. "I wouldn't be so sure about—"

"Modesty is unbecoming of you," John said, grinning widely. "Think about it, Spencer—if you work for me, we can create a drug infinitely better than the one we already have. We could lessen withdrawal symptoms—increase longevity—and, most importantly, increase the _potency—_"

"That's all very well," Reid interrupted. "I want to help you with the drug—I _do_—but you have to let me go back to my team first."

There was a long, painful silence.

"Not to work for them," Reid said hurriedly. "To tell them I'm resigning. In the note I wrote—you _saw _me write it—I promised I'd be back in a few days."

John relaxed slightly—a careful smile was playing on his lips. "But that's just the thing, Dr. Reid," he said. "You don't _need _to go back. In fact, going back is something that is so _entirely_ unnecessary that I simply _won't _allow it."

"But—"

"Shh!" Reid's protest was cut off suddenly—John held up a hand and stared intently at the door on the opposite side of the room.

"What's the matter?" Reid asked, after they had been silent for several moments.

John lowered his hand slowly. "Nothing," he said. "I just thought I heard—"

"EXTRA, EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!" John whipped around again as the door burst open suddenly—Reid felt a strong surge annoyance when he recognized the intruders.

"You've got to be kidding me," John snapped. "I thought I told you—"

"We come bearing important news," Ellie assured him, as Marland jogged towards them excitedly waving a newspaper aloft.

"Be that as it may, _how _many times do I have to tell you that you're _not _allowed in this section of the—"

"But _look_, John!" Marland interrupted, shoving the newspaper in John's face. "We're _famous!" _

John blinked. "What?" he muttered, staring at the photographs in bewilderment. "But—"

"You are, as well," Marland said, nodding at Reid.

"Personally, I don't see what the big fuss is," Ellie sniffed. "Those drawings look nothing like us. Look at that—they've got my hair all wrong. It's less dark brown and more…_mahogany._"

"And me, as well," Marland said, frowning at the photos. "I didn't notice earlier—but there's no _way _my ears are that big."

"They didn't draw any ears in the picture," Ellie informed him, also looking over John's shoulder.

"But look at how they drew my hair," Marland protested, pointing. "See—it's all puffed out at the edges. It's _suggestive _of larger ears. In reality, I have below-average sized ears." He pulled back his hair to demonstrate. "See?"

"He's got a point," Ellie said, after careful observation. "He's got abnormally small ears. I'd say there's nothing to be worried about, John—these people look _nothing _like us. In fact—if you think about it—they might not even _be _us."

John raised his eyes slowly to glare at the twins._"'Delinquent Adolescents Linked to Recent Abductions and Drug Trafficking?'" _he hissed.

"You _see?_" Marland insisted eagerly. "It sounds _nothing _like us. Besides, look at the drawing of Dr. Reid—it's even worse than mine. His cheekbones are certainly _not _that high—his forehead is much smaller—it's practically unrecognizab—"

"Marland?" Ellie interrupted.

"What?" Marland snapped, turning to glare at his sister.

"That's a photograph."

There was a pause. "Ah."

"Could I see it?" Reid asked eventually. Wordlessly, John handed the paper to Reid—in the center of the paper was the headshot from Reid's employee ID badge, as well as two smaller sketches of Ellie and Marland. Across the top of the paper, the headline read, _"Young FBI Agent Falls Victim to Narcoterrorism."_

Although Reid could hear John yelling at the twins in the background, he couldn't tear his eyes from the paper—even after he'd finished reading the article, he simply stood and stared at the paper, overwhelmed by a steady and forceful sense of anger and betrayal.

"I can't believe this," he muttered eventually. "I left them a note—I said I'd be _back—_it hasn't even been three days yet." He frowned, trying to think back. "Has it?"

"Of course they didn't listen to your note," John said. "As inconvenient as this is, it only serves to prove my point—if you want any sort of independence, Spencer, you can't go back to your team. It's a miracle you got away in the first place."

But Reid still couldn't look away from the paper. "If it had been anyone else," he muttered to himself. "If it had been Morgan or JJ or Garcia who'd wanted some days off, no one would've given it a second thought—but because it's _me, _they assume I've been kidnapped by terrorists and developed another drug addiction."

"In their defense," Ellie interrupted cheekily, "they weren't too far off the mark."

"_Out!" _John shouted, finally losing his cool. "Both of you! _Out!" _

"Aw, but I didn't even _do _anything!" Marland protested.

John's voice took on a soft, threatening tone. "If you aren't out of here within five seconds, the police will have two _additional _homicides to solve—_and _they'll be able to perfect your hair and ears in those sketches. How does that sound?"

"Right-O," Marland said, as the two of them backed hastily towards the door. "We were just going, anyways. Bye, Dr. Reid!" The moment the door closed, Reid once again lowered his gaze to the paper.

"It's like you've always said," John remarked solemnly, after several moments of silence. "They don't respect you. Not that they don't _care _for you, of course—it's just like the kids from my high school—it's not their _fault._ They occupy a different realm. They assume you're in danger because they don't understand. Because they _can't _understand."

Reid shook his head slowly. "They treat me like I'm a kid," he muttered eventually. He couldn't quite put a finger on his anger—it was almost as if the wonderful sense of competence he had felt throughout the day had been viciously attacked and slandered. His ego was screaming with fury and frustration. His insides burned with anger at the thought of his team looking upon him with guilt, concern and—worst of all—with pity. "They think I'm a socially awkward, helpless junkie who can't help getting kidnapped and can't even shoot straight—"

"But I don't," John interrupted. "You're one of us, Spencer. You _belong _here. Because it's not just a drug. I've created something that stretches human potential to its very limits. It might seem like they're winning now—they _think _they can catch us—but we'll always be three steps ahead of them. With you to help me…"He trailed off, then turned to face Reid with a smile that was simultaneously frightening and invigorating. "With you to help me, we'll never have to stop. We'll never have to inhabit _their _realm again. We'll never have to live by their laws, by their morals, under their judgment." Reid got the strangest feeling—it was as if John was simultaneously looking at him and through him, at something far off in the future. "With you to help me, Spencer—they're never going to find us."


	12. Chapter 12

_"'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'I'm mad. You're mad. We're all mad here.'"_

"He's a goddamned _fed, _John."

Reid frowned indignantly at the speaker—considering John's praise from earlier, he'd expected to be received a bit more warmly.

"I knew you'd react this way," John said, sighing. "If you'll just hear me out—"

"You've got the FBI on our backs," the man interrupted. Reid noted that this man seemed, unlike all the others he'd met, to be about John's age. "The kid's photo is plastered all over the front page—and now you've got poor Ellie and her brother involved with it all—"

"Oh, yes, _poor _Ellie and Marland," John cried, rolling his eyes. "This investigation will surely jeopardize their future as upstanding members of the community."

"You've put us all in danger," the man snapped. Although he wasn't as tall as John, he had a violent posture, a gruff voice, mean-looking eyes. "You always do this," he continued. "You see a toy that's off limits and you just _have to have it."_

"Excuse me," Reid interrupted timidly, not at all thrilled at being spoken of in the third person. "But who exactly…_are _you?"

The man turned his gaze on Reid, who instantly regretted his decision to speak up. "I'll tell you who I am," he growled, "_I'm _the guy who's going to snap your skinny neck and dump your body in the lake on the other side of town."

"This is Jack," John informed Reid hurriedly. "He's my colleague. And he's not going to be _killing _anybody."

Reid narrowed his eyes at Jack. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he said, making no acknowledgment of John's interruption.

Jack burst out laughing. "Oh, really?" he said. "What are you going to do about it—fight me? All ninety pounds of you?" He put his fists up mockingly. "Come on, pretty boy. Bring it."

Reid took a step backwards, but continued speaking nonetheless. "Whether or not you kill me is your decision," he said. "But I wouldn't dump my body on the other side of the city."

Jack lowered his fists slowly and stared at Reid. "Why not?"

"Rational choice theory," Reid said. "It's a geographical profiling method used to determine the relative location of a criminal's residency in relation to his chosen disposal sites. It relies on the killer's desire to both divert attention from his home and to remain in his comfort zone when he's at risk of being caught. You wouldn't want to dump my body in the dumpster just outside the building, for obvious reasons—but you're also not willing to travel outside of the city to dispose of the body because you don't want to be driving around in unfamiliar territory with a dead body in your trunk. Because you would be considered an organized offender, dumping my body as far away as is safe and convenient would be an obvious choice for you, and make it that much easier for my team to narrow down your _actual_ location."

Jack stared without speaking for several moments. "Alright," he said eventually, "Where _would _you suggest I leave your body?"

"I would suggest not killing me at all," Reid said politely. "Then we could avoid the problem entirely."

There was a moment or two of silence, in which Jack looked like he might be about to punch Reid in the face—then, so suddenly it was almost frightening, he burst into laughter.

"You sure know how to pick them, Johnny," he chuckled, reaching out to clasp John's shoulder. John shook him off, looking annoyed. "Seriously, though. I know you're still upset about Charlie, but we need the feds off our backs. Let me kill him now, and you can pick another one. Alright? Whoever you want. Pinky swear."

"No!" John snapped, stepping in front of Reid protectively. "Do you have _any _idea how difficult it was to get him here? How much _work _I put in?"

"Oh, yes," Jack said mockingly. "Ellie showed me _all _of your poetry. That must have taken _ages._"

"I didn't _write—_" John broke off angrily and shook his head once. "_You _don't have a say in this, Jack," he said. "He's here now."

"You were supposed to consult with me," Jack hissed. "You and I are supposed to consult with each other before giving the drug to _anyone."_

"I _would _have told you," John replied carefully, "But you would have said no!"

Jack threw his hands into the air. _"Exactly!_"

John and Jack stood there for several moments, glaring at each other.

"If it helps," Reid interjected. "Murdering me—well, murdering _anyone, _really, but especially me—would actually shed a lot _more _attention on you. If a federal agent turns up dead, everyone doesn't just give up and head home. They would tear the city apart looking for you—and, eventually, they'd find you."

Instead of turning his head, Jack continued to glare at John. "You see what you've done?" he growled eventually, pointing an accusatory finger at Reid. "We can't even _kill_ whoever we want anymore. It's anarchy."

"Don't listen to him, Spencer," John said. "We don't—"

"And another thing," Jack hissed, not allowing John to finish his sentence. "My name is not _Jack. _It's _John._"

John threw his arms up into the air. "We've already _been _through this," he snapped. "You _can't _be John. _I'm _John."

"You're _Johnny,_ I'm John."

"No _I'm _John, _you're _Jack."

The two Johns stared at each other angrily for several moments.

"Fine," Jack spat eventually. "I won't kill him until I find a better way to dispose of the body." He turned to leave.

"Where's Jeanette?" John called. Jack froze, turned around slowly, then glared at the pair of them with such a look that Reid turned his eyes towards the ground.

"You leave her alone," Jack snapped. "Or I swear to God I'll rip your eyes out.

"I just want to introduce her to Dr. Reid," John said cheekily. "That's right—it is _Dr. _Reid, as I'm sure you're aware. I don't believe that _Miss _Adams ever got around to finishing her doctorate—"

"Because she was nineteen years old when she came here," Jack snapped. "And I think she's done more than enough work to—"

"Spencer," John interrupted, "How old were you when _you _received your first doctorate?"

Reid continued to stare at the ground determinedly. "Um," he muttered, "I don't remember."

John burst out laughing. "Dr. Reid has an excellent sense of humor," he said. "Let me jog your memory—your _eidetic _memory, that is—weren't you only _seventeen_ when you received your first doctorate?" Reid heard the sound of angry footsteps as Jack stormed towards the door. "How old were you when you received the other two? I wonder how many doctorates—well, that was rude," John remarked cheerfully, the sound of the slammed door echoing throughout the room. "Come on, Spencer. I want you to meet Jeanette."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea," Reid said, still eyeing the door warily.

"Oh, don't let Jack intimidate you," John replied dismissively. "He enjoys the thrill of confrontation. He and I have a…_friendly_ rivalry going, so to speak."

"What kind of rivalry?" Reid muttered, reluctantly following John down the hallway.

"We're developing different versions of the drug," John explained. "Jack has been working with Jeanette for years now. She's really a very lovely young lady—well _I _don't like her, actually—I find her rather presumptuous—but _Jack_ gets along with her fine. That being said, he also gets along with Ellie, so take from that what you will."

Reid shook his head slowly. "Why wouldn't you collaborate?" he asked. "Why not share your ideas with each other?"

"Competition fosters creativity, that's what I always say," John said.

"Is that why you brought me here?" Reid asked. "To help you…_beat_ him?"

John laughed. "Out of all of the reasons I brought you here, that _is_ one of the most self-indulgent," he admitted. "I assume you'll forgive me."

They walked in silence for some. Finally, Reid asked, "Who's Charlie?"

There was a tense pause. "I'm sorry?"

"Charlie. Jack said something about you being upset about Charlie. Who is he?"

John looked uncomfortable. "He used to work with me," he said shortly.

"What happened to him?"

John gritted his teeth. "He left. Some time ago."

Reid frowned. "He just…left? Where is he now?"

John shrugged indifferently, then gave Reid a wide smile. "Who can say?" he asked, hurrying towards the door at the end of the hallway. "Ah, here we are—I suppose Jeanette is in here—" As he pushed the door open, they were confronted with a young man and a woman who appeared to be standing with their backs to each other, facing whiteboards on opposite walls. Neither of them turned to look at either John or Reid.

John sighed. "Remy," he called, addressing the girl. "Have you seen Jeanette anywhere?"

There was no response.

"Remy?" he called again. There was no answer. "Dr. Oliver?"

"Yes?" the girl replied, not moving her head from the board.

"Have you seen Jeanette anywhere?"

"Yes." The girl had a flat, monotone voice that was somewhat unsettling. "I saw her in room thirteen. And in room twenty-one. And in rooms three, seven, twelve, five, eleven, ten, and eighteen. I've also seen her in this room before."

"Yes," John said, through gritted teeth, "But where did you see her _most recently?_"

There was a long pause. "Room twelve."

"And when was that?"

There was another pause. "Saturday."

"Brilliant," John grumbled, "Thanks a lot, Dr. Oliver."

"You're welcome."

Reid tapped John on the shoulder. "Can't we ask him?" he asked, nodding to the man at the opposite side of the room.

John cast the man a dark look. "I wouldn't," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"Well, he—" John broke off, then sighed. "Well, we can give it a try. Are you listening to me, Wilbur?"

The man turned to look at Reid and John. He nodded.

"Excellent. Have you seen Jeanette Adams around anywhere?"

Wilbur frowned. "The limit is approaching zero," he said.

"Alright," John said, "But I was asking about Jeanette. She—"

"The limit is approaching zero," Wilbur repeated, louder this time.

"I'm sure it is," John replied. "But I was wondering—"

"You set the limit equal to one," Wilbur interrupted, seeming quite indignant that John hadn't understood him. "Take the limit of the sin of x and divide it by x as it approaches zero and set it equal to one."

"That's all very well," John said, "But—"

"If the top and bottom are both equal to zero, take the derivate," Wilbur snapped, with a tone of finality, then turned once again to face the board.

John sighed. "Well, I suppose that was about as useful as one could've expected—Jeanette is probably on her way here now, we so we should probably—Dr. Reid, _where _are you going?"

Reid approached Wilbur and stared at the board. "I like your proof," he said. "Most people would use the double-sided theorem."

Wilbur turned to him and smiled. "Squeeze theorem," he said.

Reid grinned back. "Sandwich theorem."

"Pinching theorem."

"Two policemen and a drunk theorem."

Wilbur looked confused.

"It's an expression commonly used in Europe," Reid said. "If two policemen are escorting a drunk man between them, and both men end up in a cell, then—regardless of the path taken, or how much he might wobble between them—the prisoner must also end up in the cell."

Wilbur looked delighted. "If a function is bounded by two other functions," he said excitedly, as if responding to a question in class, "and the limits of those respective functions are equal at a certain point, the value of the original function is equal to those limits at that point."

"Like two policemen and a drunk," Reid said.

Wilbur laughed.

"What proof _are_ you using?" Reid asked, examining the whiteboard more closely. Wilbur grinned again and started writing.

Suddenly, Reid was aware of John's hand grasping his elbow. "Come on, Dr. Reid," he said, sounding aggravated. "We don't have time for this."

"But he's the nicest person I've met since I got here!" Reid protested, casting one last glance at the whiteboard as he was dragged towards the door. Wilbur raised a sad hand in farewell before turning back to the whiteboard. Remy Oliver hadn't moved throughout the entire interaction.

"Those are _Jack's_ people," John muttered, once they were out of earshot. "I'd suggest not dealing with them—except for experimental purposes, of course. They're all unbalanced."

Reid glanced backwards, still rather upset he hadn't had time to read Wilbur's proof. "How many people live here?" he asked eventually.

"Less than you'd think," John replied. "There are ten of us at any given time—well, twelve if you count Ellie and Marland, which I generally prefer not to. Jack and I are the founders—we originally created the drug—well, really it was _me_ who did most of the actual work, and he did have a lucky hunch or two, but…" he trailed off. "Anyways, right now, there are Michael and Robert—who are mine—you've already met them—and Leonard is mine as well." Reid found the use of the possessive word strange considering the context, but decided not to say anything. "I believe you met Leonard briefly—he's a composer. Charming man. Excellent musician. Anyways—there's Jeanette, who appears to be evading us, and then there are Remy and Wilbur—who you've just met—and then there's Avery." He said the name with marked distaste. "He's supposed to be a painter. Or something. Most unpleasant fellow I've ever met. He's Jack's as well, as you might have guessed, and—why, _Jeanette!" _

A tall, blond-haired woman wearing a lab coat and blue jeans froze in the entrance of the doorway. "Oh," she said, glancing back and forth from John to Reid.

"Jeanette, this is Dr. Reid," John said happily. "You can call him Spencer. She _can_ call you Spencer, right?" Without waiting for Reid to answer, he continued. "We're all on a first name basis here. He _is_ a doctor, though, Jeanette. How many doctorates do you have, Spencer?"

"Um," Reid said, glancing back and forth from Jeanette to John. "It's nice to meet you." He held out his hand.

Jeanette glanced at his outstretched hand and smirked. "So _you're_ Charlie's replacement, are you?"

Reid felt John tense up behind him. "You could at least _try_ to be polite," he hissed at her.

"I _am_ being polite," Jeanette sneered. She looked Reid up and down. "So you're a fed, huh?"

"Yeah," Reid said, not appreciating the rudeness. "I'm actually here to arrest you."

Jeanette's face darkened for a split-second—likely as a result of the realization that Reid was not as easy to bully as she had expected—then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the anger was gone. "Good luck with that," she said, smiling cheekily, then she pushed past Reid and started walking down the hallway.

"I really hate her," John muttered, more to himself than to Reid.

Reid, however, had more important things on his mind. "What happened to Charlie?" he asked.

John's posture instantly became defensive. "I already told you," he snapped. "Stop asking."

"I'm sorry," Reid said, not wanting to offend one of the few people who apparently didn't want to kill him. "It's just that—everyone keeps mentioning it—"

"It's nothing to worry about," John said, smiling at him once again. "A delicate subject, that's all. I'll tell you later. Anyways—now that you've met everyone. Let me show you my lab."

**O**

"Ma'am, I said we're with the FBI."

"Who?"

"The FBI, ma'am."

"I don't know you."

"I know you don't, ma'am. It's the FBI."

"Who?"

"The FBI!"

"Who?"

_"THE FBI!"_

There was a long pause—the lady continued to peer quizzically through the mail-slot in her door at Morgan's badge. Finally, after several moments of silence, she asked, "Are you one of Tommy's friends?"

"No, ma'am. We're with the FBI."

"The what?"

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"Who?"

"We're with the government."

There was a long, drawn-out silence—Morgan exchanged an impatient look with JJ. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, the lady asked, "Are you one of Tommy's friends?"

Morgan turned to JJ. "Can I kick the door down now?" he asked her.

JJ gave him a look of horror. "Absolutely _not,_" she hissed.

_ "TOMMY!"_ Both Morgan and JJ jumped at the sudden and unexpected shriek that came from within the house. _"TOMMY! YOUR FRIENDS ARE HERE TO SEE YOU!"_

To Morgan's immense relief, a much younger looking man appeared at the door several seconds later. Instead of opening it, however, he simply stared through the window suspiciously.

"FBI," Morgan said, mouthing each word very clearly and holding up his badge. Tommy hesitated for several moments before opening the door a crack.

"What do you want?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse—his eyes were much wider than normal, and darted back and forth from JJ to Morgan nervously.

"You aren't in any trouble," Morgan said. "We're investigating the death of your brother. Charlie Baker?"

Tommy nodded to himself. "Right," he said. "Charlie's dead."

"Yes," Morgan said. "May we come in?"

Tommy glanced back and forth from Morgan to JJ. "Might as well," he muttered eventually, then stepped back to allow them to enter.

The house was a disaster. Dirty dishes occupied every available surface—clothes were strewn across the floor and, for unknown reasons, an empty birdcage sat in the middle of the coffee table.

"D'you—d'you want something to drink?" Tommy asked nervously.

"That's alright," JJ said. "Do you live here alone with your grandmother?"

"My mom's at work," Tommy muttered. "She and my dad are….separated."

"Alright," JJ said. "We just wanted to ask you some questions about the night before Charlie disappeared. How old were you when it happened?"

"Five years ago," Tommy muttered, nodding to himself. "Five years—yeah. I guess I was twenty, twenty-one. Home from college."

"Where did you go to college?" JJ asked.

"Was at NYU. Dropped out." He shrugged. "Didn't live with Charlie, anyways—he lived on his own. We didn't talk much. He didn't talk to anybody much."

"But the last time you saw him," JJ said. "When was that?"

"Two nights before," Tommy muttered. "He'd been working on some project—I don't know—for months. It was over. We were celebrating, I guess. Family thing. Felt like he didn't really want to be there, though."

"Did he seem different?" Morgan asked.

Tommy nodded. "Yeah," he said. "He was using again."

Morgan exchanged a look with JJ. "Using what?"

Tommy's eyes darted between them nervously. "Cocaine."

"And what made you think he was using?"

"I didn't _think_ he was using," Tommy muttered. "I _knew_ it."

"How did you know?"

Tommy glanced downwards—he almost smiled. "I know," he said. "There was something—different about it. It was the intensity. When he looked at you, man, he just…he _looked_ at you." he trailed off. "Maybe it wasn't cocaine," he said. "But it was something. Maybe something…_more._ I've seen people on drugs before. Other drugs. _Hard_ drugs. And some people—they get that look about them. I'd seen it before on other people, but never before on Charlie. Not until that night."

"What look?" JJ asked him. "It's that look. When they look at you, like—you don't matter. Nothing matters. It's like this feeling—right now—is all that matters. It's not how they act—they could be acting as normal as ever—but you look into their eyes and you see it."

Morgan glanced at JJ. "I'm not quite understanding," he said. "Could you explain it anymore? Did he have any symptoms? Dilated pupils? Twitching? Irritability?"

"It's not about how you act." Tommy still hadn't looked up from the floor—by this point, it almost seemed as if he were talking to himself more than Morgan or JJ. "It's not about the type of drug or what it does or even really how it makes you feel—it's just that decision that they make. To put life second. And you can see it. Because you can't hide something like that. Not really."

Tommy was silent for such a long time, Morgan began to wonder if he was done talking. Off in the other room, Tommy's grandmother had begun to shout at the empty birdcage. JJ rushed over to her to calm her down—but Morgan stayed where he was.

"And we didn't find out that Charlie was missing until two days later," Tommy whispered suddenly, so softly that Morgan had to lean in closer to hear him. "But I already knew. I never helped look for him—it was useless. He was already gone."

**A/N: I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why is the author's note at the bottom of the page, when you usually put it at the top?" No? You weren't thinking that, because you really don't care where I put my author's notes? Were you perhaps thinking, "I feel as if a strange yet undeniable force compels me to leave a review at the bottom of this page?" Because if you were, then you are correct. That is the correct thing to be thinking. Congratulations. You now an objectively wonderful person (and also possibly a psychic, but we can't know for sure.) But since I'm not a psychic, and I can't read your mind, I'd appreciate it if your compulsion to review (which we ****_all know_**** you now have) would manifest itself in an actual review so that I could read what all of you incredibly cool people think of the chapter (also, thanks to all the already-incredibly cool people who left a review on the previous chapter). Thanks for reading! :-)**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thanks to all the cool psychics who left reviews! Sorry it took me a little longer than usual to update—I was in Maine for a week or so, and apparently there's this part of Maine that's so close to being in Canada that the internet people just decide "fuck it, close enough" and stop giving you service. There also might be a slighter longer than usual time before I update again, because I'm leaving for college in a few days and it will probably take me at least four or five months to figure out how to use the internet in my dorm room (but I guess we'll see how it goes.) Sooo anyways, I hope you people enjoy the chapter, and I'd absolutely love to hear what you think. THANKS FOR READING!**

"_Don't do drugs because if you do drugs you'll go to prison, and drugs are really expensive in prison." –John Hardwick_

"Why not use magnesium?"

John just shook his head slowly. "It wouldn't work," he muttered.

"Why not?" Reid demanded. "If the drug is mainly amphetamine based, that means tolerance is caused by an excess of positive calcium ions being absorbed through the NDMA receptor, and an excess of magnesium ions would inhibit activity in that area of the brain."

John nodded. "I know," he said. "We already tried it."

Reid frowned. "It didn't work?"

"It was ineffective. The amount of magnesium required was impractical."

Reid paused for a moment. "What about taurine?"

"Even less effective."

"Memantine? Amantadine?"

"Same problem."

The silence last slightly longer this time. Finally, Reid asked, "Well, what _haven't_ you tried?"

"We've tried everything," John muttered. "We usually just end up altering the structure of the drug itself, instead of addressing the tolerance problem."

"I can see that," Reid muttered, his eyes drifting over the walls of the laboratory—every inch of space was covered with lists of scribbled ingredients. "Well, I don't suppose…" he trailed off. "You haven't tried dextromethorphan?"

John snorted. "Cough syrup?"

"In small quantities—"

"We tried it," John said. "It was a _bit_ more effective, but even then…." he trailed off. "It wasn't worth the side effects."

Reid paused for another moment. "Well you could—well, no, I suppose you couldn't."

John raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking of the chemical structure—not the side effects—it would never—"

"Come on," John interrupted. "Now I'm curious."

"Well—PCP would work. Chemically, I mean. Not in reality. Obviously." He scratched his head. "Where did you _get_ all this stuff from, anyways?" he asked, seeking to change the subject. "You've got nearly as many chemicals as most universities. How did you get it all here without anyone noticing?"

Jack didn't answer—instead, he was staring at Reid as if deep in thought. As the silence stretched on, Reid began to feel slightly uncomfortable. "What?" he demanded eventually.

John simply laughed. "It's nothing," he said. "Forgive me for saying, Dr. Reid—and I know I'll regret even mentioning it—but you're even more like Charlie than I could've suspected."

**O**

"It's been four years." Mrs. Quincy's youthful face looked tired and sad. "When I last saw Robert—well, I don't know. It was unremarkable. It wasn't a _fight,_ I suppose—nothing that would cause him to leave—we just argued. About him and Bobby, really. I thought he wasn't spending enough time with him." She paused for a moment. "It's ironic, really," she said suddenly. "Because he's seven now, and I don't think he even remembers his father."

"Had he changed?" Blake asked, glancing first at the young boy playing on the floor in front of them and then returning her gaze to his mother. "In the weeks before his disappearance—did Robert act differently?"

Mrs. Quincy shrugged. "He was always obsessive," she said. "Obsessed with his work. With his writing. I didn't want to admit it to myself at the time—but I always knew. He loved writing more than he loved me. More than he loved his son. It'd be nice to think that he was abducted, I suppose." She blushed once she realized the implication of this statement. "Well, not _nice,_ but nicer than thinking he abandoned us." She paused for a moment or two. "I loved him—but there was always something about him. A strange type of egotism. Like nothing mundane or ordinary could hold him. He fought against it—he did." She paused for a moment. "But in those weeks before he left, it was almost like…" she trailed off. "He lost the fight. Or he gave up. He tried to love us, and he failed. He might have loved us once—or maybe he didn't. But I suppose he just came to a point where it didn't matter anymore."

**O**

"I'll be back _within_ the hour, Dr. Reid."

"Yes, alright," Reid said nervously. "But are you _sure_ that Jack isn't going to use this as an opportunity to kill me?"

John laughed. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Besides—you'll be with Michael and Robert. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Um," Reid said. Before he could protest, however, John had already pushed the door open. Michael and Robert were seated in the same room as when he had first met them—and they seemed to be seated in the same positions, as well, with Robert writing furiously and Michael staring vacantly off into space.

"Hello, Percy!" Michael called delightedly.

"Don't you people ever move?" Reid asked, before he could stop himself. He heard John chuckling to himself as he walked away from them.

"Occasionally," Michael replied. "No more than is necessary."

Reid glanced backwards at John before leaning in closer to Michael. "Did you know Charlie Baker?"

The silence that followed was deafening—it took Reid a moment or two to realize that Robert had ceased typing, his fingers frozen in place. Michael's eyes were wide with panic and alarm—he seemed too frightened to speak.

"What happened to him?" Reid pressed, leaning in closer to Michael. "I know that I took his place. He worked for John. You and Robert must have spent a lot of time with him."

Michael just shook his head back and forth slowly. "I have to say, Percy," he whispered eventually, his voice much higher than normal. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. I've never met anyone named Charlie Baker in my life."

Reid glanced once at Robert—the other man looked away hastily and began typing again.

Irritated, Reid pushed himself to his feet. He turned towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Michael demanded nervously.

Reid turned around with a smirk. "Am I not allowed to leave?"

Michael stared at him for several moments. "It would be unwise," he said.

"Why?"

There was a long stretch of silence. "His name was _not_ Charlie," Michael muttered eventually, then turned to face the wall. Reid rolled his eyes, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hallway.

**O**

"He wasn't a _bad_ guy."

"But you just told me that he didn't have any friends, Dr. Turner," Rossi replied, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, he was…_odd,_" Dr. Turner replied. "There's no negating that. But he didn't seek out company. He wasn't the kind of person you invited over for dinner."

"But why not?"

"Some of the things he said." Dr. Turner shrugged. "He had this…this strange, penetrating, _brutal_ honesty. Really made you think. He was a brilliant teacher. A brilliant man. But still." He shrugged again. "He was odd."

"And in the weeks before his disappearance, was he acting any…stranger than usual?"

Dr. Turner laughed uneasily. "He lived alone," he said. "No family that I know of. He never had people over—there was nobody to _have_ over. In all honesty, Agent Rossi, he might have been gone for weeks before anyone noticed—if it wasn't for the fact that he missed a day of class for the first time in his entire career, Michael Stephenson might never have been reported missing."

**O**

"So, Wilbur," Reid began. "Do you know who Charlie Baker is?"

Wilbur turned around suddenly, as if he hadn't notice Reid enter the room.

"You shouldn't be here."

This response did not come from Wilbur, but instead from his companion on the other side of the room. Reid turned to her with a frown. "Excuse me," he said. "But I don't think I was talking to you."

"You're with John," Remy said. "You're not supposed to be in this room."

"I didn't realize these facilities were exclusive," Reid said sarcastically, sneering at the worn-out whiteboards and fading carpet.

Remy frowned. "Restriction does not automatically imply exclusivity, just as exclusivity does not imply superiority. Either way, your implication is not appreciated."

Reid raised his eyebrows. "Alright then," he muttering, deciding to pretend he had misunderstood her statement. "Anyways—Wilbur—" he turned back to Wilbur, who had been watching the pair of them quizzically the entire time. "Do _you_ know anything about Charlie Baker?"

Wilbur frowned for several moments, then pointed to the board. "Integrate the function to find the area of the square," he said.

"Yes," Reid said. "I understand. But I'd prefer if we could talk about Charlie Baker right now."

Wilbur shook his head. "The derivative represents the velocity," he replied.

"I know," Reid said, beginning to get frustrated. "But I don't want to _talk_ about the function right now."

Wilbur frowned at him confusedly, as if he didn't understand.

"He prefers to speak only in mathematical truths," Remy clarified in a bored voice.

Reid folded his arms and sighed. "Figured as much," he muttered. "Alright, well—thanks anyways, Wilbur." He turned his gaze towards Remy hopefully. "I don't suppose _you_ know anything?"

"I know plenty of things."

"Yes," Reid said impatiently, "But, I mean—about Charlie Baker. Do you know anything about him?"

"On that subject," she replied, "There is nothing that I know that is not already generally known—and, if I _did_ acquire any information that was _not_ generally known, I would have no reason to reveal it to you—nor would I have reason to reveal that I had acquired said information, in the first place. This, of course, renders our interaction entirely meaningless." With that, she turned her back towards Reid to stare, once again, at the whiteboard.

"Excellent. Nice meeting you, too," Reid muttered, pushing past the door and out into the hallway.

**O**

"What have you got, Garcia?"

"You're going to love me for this one, boss-man," Garcia informed him cheerily, sounding more upbeat than she had since Reid's disappearance. "I followed up with the coroner that examined Charlie's body—they couldn't identify _all_ of the drugs, but three that she _could_ identify were amphetamine, dextroamphetamine and—believe or not—phencyclidine."

"PCP," Hotch muttered. "That sounds…odd."

"You're telling me. The amphetamine use dated back years—the PCP was much more recent. But it wasn't just amphetamines—there were scores of other drugs here that the M.E. was unable to identify, as well as symptoms that couldn't be accounted for by the amphetamines _or_ the PCP. There might be amphetamines _in_ the drug, but there are so many drugs with amphetamines and so many other unknown ingredients that it's impossible to know exactly what we're dealing with here."

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "Then why do you sound so happy, Garcia?"

"Because, my good sir," Garcia said, "Charlie Baker left us something _much_ more useful than his toxicology report."

**O**

"I know you're in there," Reid hissed. He waited several moments for a response—nothing. "John told me," he called again, louder this time. "Come _on_—why is it that when I _want_ to be left alone, there's no getting rid of you, but the _one_ time I actually need your help with—" Reid broke off as the door swung open—instead of Ellie or Marland, as he had been expecting, he came face to face with Jack.

"Oh," Reid said, his voice jumping several octaves. "My apologies. I'll just—"

"They're in there," growled Jack, pushing past Reid and leaving the door ajar. He stormed down the hallway without another word.

Reid took a hesitant step forward—unlike practically every other room in the building, this one looked less like a classroom and more like a closet. Both Ellie and Marland were sitting on what appeared to be shelves, with Ellie up one shelf higher than her brother. Reid peered upwards—wondering how high the shelves went—but was interrupted when a hard object collided with his face.

"Argh!" He bent down and examined the object—a shoe. He held it up. "Seriously?"

Both of them stared at him innocently.

"Wasn't me," Marland said.

Ellie glared downwards at her brother angrily. "It's _your_ shoe."

"Is _not._"

Reid glanced down at the shoe to put a quick end to the controversy. "It's a size twelve," he said. "I don't think it's Ellie's."

"That's not fair!" Marland shouted. "Just because it's _my_ shoe, it doesn't mean _I_ threw it!"

Ellie smirked. "Ockham's razor suggests otherwise."

Marland leapt to his feet. "I've been framed, Dr. Reid, _honest_!"

"Look," Reid said, dropping the shoe onto the ground. "I don't care who threw it. I just came here to—"

"That's right, of course," Ellie said. "You want to murder John."

"It's understandable," Marland said. "He can be pretty annoying sometimes."

"No," Reid interrupted, "That's not what I—"

"You want to start a fire?" Marland asked.

"Ohh, _finally,"_ Ellie said gleefully. "I've been wanting to start a fire for _ages_."

"No!" Reid snapped. "I came to—"

"You want to write a poem?" Ellie asked. "I'll help you, if you want."

"I do not want to write a poem—if you could just _listen_ for a second—"

"HEY, DID YOU _HEAR_ THAT?" Ellie shouted, her shrill voice reverberating off the walls of the closet. "COULD YOU ALL JUST _LISTEN_ FOR A SECOND?"

"Charlie Baker!" Reid snapped, before either of them had a chance to say anything else. "Nobody will tell me what happened to him."

Ellie grinned. "Well, Dr. Reid," she said. "Maybe you should consider _why_ that is, and come back after you've thought about it a bit."

Reid folded his arms. "I _have_ thought about it," he said. "And I was hoping you could tell me now."

Ellie reached behind herself, pulled a second shoe off of the shelf, and tossed it into the air aimlessly. "And why would we do that?"

"Because it would annoy John."

Ellie sat up straight. "But why would we want to do that?" she asked. "We _love_ John."

"Oh, yes," Marland said. "We've _always_ loved him."

"No matter what."

"Through thick and thin."

"Even after he killed Charlie."

Reid blinked. _"What?"_

"What?" Ellie echoed. She turned to Marland. "Did you say something?"

"What? Me?"

"Who?"

"What?"

The twins stared at each other for several moments before turning to face Reid simultaneously.

"I'm sorry," Ellie said. "Did you say something?"

Reid rolled his eyes. "Nice try," he said, turning towards the door. "I guess I should've known better."

"Are you going so soon, Dr. Reid?" Marland called. "We still haven't even had time to start that fire!"

Reid ignored him.

"You're absolutely right to leave, Dr. Reid," Ellie called after his retreating figure. "I'm sure you've got everything under control—after all, you'd have to be a special sort of idiot to listen to _us_. Right?"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hello! So, like I said, I am very sorry that it took me two weeks to update (again.) I hate having these huge gaps because I feel like it kind of interrupts the flow of the story…but I have rewarded you wonderfully patient people with a very eventful chapter (with a cliffhanger that might or might not make you hate me.) So, uh…you're welcome, I guess?**

**Whether or not you end up hating me, THANK YOU ALL for reading and thanks EVEN MORE for reviewing. Tell me what you think of the chapter and I PROMISE (seriously, though, I promise) I will update more quickly next time.**

**STAY PSYCHIC.**

"_I would never join a club that would allow a person like me to become a member." – Woody Allen_

"What are we _waiting_ for, Hotch?"

Hotch ignored his younger colleague—he was still staring at the text message that Garcia had sent him.

"We have an address," Morgan snapped. "We've got no idea what these people are doing to Reid. The sooner we get him out of there, the better."

Hotch shook his head slowly. "We have to act cautiously," he said. "It's just too easy. Why would Charlie Baker leave the address in his pocket?"

"Maybe because he was _murdered?"_ Morgan snapped. "Think about it, Hotch—none of the others have turned up dead. Maybe this guy got killed for a reason."

Hotch nodded to himself. "A drug overdose would be an easy cover-up for murder," he admitted. "And the M.E. did say that his body had several defensive wounds on it—although drug addicts get into fights all the time." He paused for a moment, contemplating. "Let's say that Charlie gets injected with a lethal dose of—well, of _whatever_ it is—and he knows he's only got so much time. He writes down the address in the hopes that the police will find his body and put an end to the whole institution once and for all."

"Right," Morgan said, "So let's _go._"

Hotch continued to stare at the message with unease. "We still don't know the whole story," he muttered. "It could be a trap. It could be nothing."

"Right," Morgan said, "So let's _go and find out."_

Hotch just shook his head. "None of the other victims have turned up dead," he said. "Reid's in no immediate danger. Besides, Morgan—for all we know, Reid _decided_ to go with these people. If he's heavily dependent on a drug that only _they_ can supply, we have to consider the possibility that he won't be on our side. We have to consider the possibility that none of these 'victims' want to be rescued."

Morgan glared. "Charlie Baker clearly did," he said eventually.

Hotch sighed. "I know," he said. "But we need a plan."

**O**

Reid knocked on the door hesitantly. He couldn't quite put a finger on _what_ it was that made Jeanette so intimidating—perhaps it was her inexplicable hatred of him, or her relationship with Jack, or the general air of arrogance that had been apparent even during their first conversation. But she was the only person left to ask—aside from Jack, whom was less subtly intimidating and more explicitly terrifying—and Reid simply couldn't dispel the anxious feeling that Ellie's words had caused him, no matter how he tried.

_Even when he killed Charlie._

Reid shook his head, gritted his teeth, then knocked on the door again, louder this time. There were a few moments of silence—then a few _more_ moments where it sounded as if someone was getting out of a chair—and then, finally the door opened, leaving several more moments for Jeanette stared to glare at him with disdainful irritation.

"Hello," Reid said eventually, to break the silence. "I'm Dr. Reid. I'm not sure if you remember me."

Jeanette stared at him without responding.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Reid said briskly. "Anyways, I heard you mention something earlier—something about a person named Charlie."

More silence.

"Charlie Baker?" Reid clarified helpfully.

Nothing.

"You said I was his replacement," Reid said, beginning to feel both anxious and irritated.

Finally, she spoke. "You _are_ his replacement," she sneered. "I thought you knew." Then she slammed the door in his face.

Furious, Reid pounded on the door with his fist—Jeanette, however, appeared to be ignoring him. "That's very rude, you know!" he shouted. "Very unprofessional! I'm _glad_ I don't have to work with you, because if I did I'd—"

"Dr. Reid, _what_ on Earth are you doing?"

Reid froze, his hand in mid-knock, then glanced sheepishly at the person who had just stepped into the hallway. He gesticulated wordlessly at the door for several moments, before saying, "She's being mean to me."

"I _told_ you to avoid Jack's people," John admonished him sternly. "Besides, I've been looking _everywhere_ for you—you had me worried."

"Why?" Reid asked nervously, whipping around to face John. "You said Jack wouldn't hurt me—that there was nothing to worry about—_you said there was nothing to worry about!"_

"Relax, Spencer," John chuckled. "I was merely worried because you haven't had a dose in nearly eleven hours—we have to give you your next dose before the twelfth hour."

Reid blinked. "Oh," he said. "Alright—I mean, if you _say_ so, but—" he paused for a moment, trying to assess his current state of well-being. "It doesn't really feel like the first one has worn off yet."

John laughed again. "And thank god for that," he said, leading Reid down the hallway. "The last time we forgot to administer the drug, Dr. Hadley nearly strangled poor Dr. Douglas. She would have succeeded, too, if Jack and I hadn't intervened."

Reid frowned. "You mean that girl doing mathematics with Wilbur?" he asked in disbelief. "She almost _strangled_ him? She can't weigh more than a hundred pounds!"

"Yes," John said. "Exactly."

**O**

"We have to enter silently," Hotch informed the SWAT team solemnly. "The moment you make any noise, everything is lost. We have to isolate and detain as many people as we can without alerting the rest of the inhabitants, because we have no idea what these people might to do protect their freedom and to protect the drug. We also have no idea which people are criminals and which are victims. Two members of each group will be armed with tranquilizer darts—everyone else will carry a gun, but we do _not_ shoot unless it is absolutely necessary. Understand?"

There was a chorus of affirmation. Hotch glanced at Morgan—then his eyes roamed over to Blake, Rossi, and JJ, all of whom had insisted on being part of the raid. He nodded once.

"Let's go."

**O**

It wasn't as bad as last time.

It was still terrifying—the racing pulse, the building pressure in his head, the sudden and inexplicable feeling of fear and panic and anxiety—but it was coupled with excitement, with the anticipation of what was to come, as if his body was accepting the drug into his system like an old friend that it easily recognized.

Out in the hallway, he thought he heard footsteps—whispers—he pressed his ear to the door, trying to listen, trying control his breathing. He was struck by the strangest feeling—as if the voices were familiar.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head back and forth.

_It's just your imagination,_ he told himself. _Just like the laughter. It's all in your head. _

**O**

Hotch burst into the room, holding his gun aloft—the two men in front of him froze, terrified. One was holding what looked like a violin—the other was standing in front of an easel.

"Don't move," Hotch hissed. "Don't make a sound. Put your hands on top of your heads…"

As he was speaking, two tranquilizer darts whistled past his ears like and embedded themselves in each man's neck. The two had collapsed to the ground before Hotch had finished his sentence. The violin fell with a loud _clang—_they all winced at the loud noise.

"Someone stay here with them," Hotch muttered. "The paramedics will be coming down shortly."

**O**

"Don't move!" JJ hissed, trying as hard as she could to make her whispered voice sound urgent. "Don't make a sound. Put your…" she trailed off as the room's sole occupant fell to the floor, unconscious.

"If I had to make a guess, I'd swear that's Robert Quincy," she muttered, noting how similar the man's blond hair was to that of Mrs. Quincy's son.

"JJ!" She turned around to see Blake, who was already halfway out the door.

JJ shook her head once to clear it. "Right," she said. "Let's go find Spence."

**O**

"Don't move. Don't make a sound. Put—_hey!"_

The girl had leapt backwards the moment they had entered the room—as the dart was fired, she had raised her hand to protect her face, resulting in the dart burying itself in her wrist. She stumbled backwards, falling over a chair and letting out a half-choked cry.

"Don't shoot!" Rossi commanded, rushing forwards immediately. A second dose of a tranquilizer that powerful would almost certainly kill someone of her size. Rossi bent down beside the girl, who stared up at him with wide and frantic eyes.

"Don't be afraid," Rossi said. "We won't hurt you." He frowned to himself—the sole female name from the victim list popped suddenly into his head. "Are you Jeanette?" he asked.

Jeanette gave him a look of pure hatred, spat in his face, and then fell to the ground, unconscious.

**O**

"We're ready," Morgan hissed. "We go in three…two…one…"

The door splintered to pieces under the force of Morgan's kick—he opened his mouth to recite the rehearsed lines, but his voice suddenly froze when he recognized the inhabitant of the room.

"Reid?" Morgan asked.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised to see his friend—he had been expecting it, obviously—_hoping_ for it, even—but the rush of familiarity was so overwhelming that he ceased to view the person before him as an enemy or a threat or even as a victim. It was just Reid.

Reid had his back towards them—he hadn't turned around when they'd entered, nor did he turn when Morgan spoke.

"Do we shoot?" hissed the SWAT team leader urgently. At these words, Reid turned around sharply, almost as if he had just realized there were other people in the room.

Morgan stared at Reid—the circles under his eyes were so dark it seemed as if they were etched there permanently, and his skin was so white it seemed almost translucent. His right arm was covered in bruises from track marks.

Morgan heard the soft, whizzing sound of a tranquilizer being fired—it sunk itself deep into Reid's neck. The small group waited anxiously for the young man to fall—Morgan even stepped forward slightly, hoping to catch his friend so he wouldn't hit his head.

But Reid didn't fall. Instead, he reached for the tranquilizer, grabbed hold of it, and then pulled it out of his neck, as if it were an irritating splinter. Reid stared at it for a moment or two—raised his head to look at Morgan—and then laughed.

"What the hell?" stammered a voice behind Morgan. Morgan could feel the panic of the men around him—it was almost as if Reid were some sort of supernatural monster. They continued to stare at Reid, waiting for the fall that simply did not come.

Then the man beside Morgan spoke. "Look at his eyes," he whispered. Morgan narrowed his eyes, examining his friend more closely—sure enough, the centers of his eyes were almost completely black.

"If he's just taken the drug, it could be thirty minutes before he comes off of the high," the man whispered urgently. "Maybe even longer. The tranquilizer won't work until the initial rush wears off."

There was a desperate, panicking silence.

"Should we shoot him again?" Someone asked suddenly.

"I can _hear_ you, you know!" Reid giggled, his frenzied eyes moving across the group with a maniacal yet strangely detached sort of amusement—as if he were sharing a joke with a large audience that was not present.

"Don't shoot him again," Morgan said, although his voice wavered slightly—he had never heard Reid laugh like that before in his life. "An overdose of the tranquilizers will kill him."

"He's going to ruin _everything,_" a voice behind him hissed.

"There we go again, with the _him_ thing!" Reid cried, his voice getting progressively louder. "I'd say we're all good friends here, right? It's _rude_ to refer to someone in the third person you're in the same room as them. _Right?"_ He took a step towards Morgan and smiled. The smile looked off—Morgan took a step back. The person smiling at him was not Reid.

"There are only _two_ solutions," Reid continued, as if he were giving a lecture to a group of students. "First, the solution that _you're_ not present—if _you're_ not present, this means that we are _not_ in the same room together, which would explain why you were speaking of me in the third person. The _second_ solution, obviously, is that _I'm_ not present—which would make sense from _your_ point of view, but make absolutely _no_ sense from _mine._ It's all about _perspective,_ of course—which brings me to my next question." He was several inches away from Morgan by this point. "We're friends—aren't we?"

Morgan nodded mutely. "Of course," he said eventually, praying that the tranquilizers would kick in soon.

Reid raised his arm aloft—still holding the tranquilizer dart—and shouted, "_Friends_ don't shoot _friends_ with _drugs,_ _Derek Morgan!"_

The man beside him raised his gun—Morgan held his hand up to stop him. "No," he hissed. He turned towards Reid desperately. "Look, Reid—we _are_ friends, alright? I know you're not in a good state of mind right now—but just _listen_ to me. Make any more noise, and we'll have to shoot you with another tranquilizer—which, as you know, could _kill_ you—and we need to give you the antidote for the _original_ tranquilizer, or it could _still_ end up killing you. Just come with me and we'll take you to the hospital. Make sense?"

Reid frowned at him for several moments. "I suppose you're right," he said eventually, after an unnaturally long silence. His arm still hadn't moved.

"Okay," Morgan said. Hesitantly, he grabbed Reid's arm and lowered it to his side. "I have to handcuff you—you know that, right?"

Suddenly, Reid swayed dangerously—Morgan stepped forward to support him. "It's okay," he said reassuringly. "It's just the tranquilizer kicking in. Just relax. It's fine." He nodded at the SWAT team. "I've got this," he said. "Go find Hotch. He might need you."" He lowered his friend to the ground slowly—then he bent down beside him and put two fingers to his throat to check his pulse.

Morgan frowned to himself. The pulse was fast—_way_ too fast. It wasn't the pulse of someone who had just been dosed with sedatives—instead, it was the pulse of someone who was about to have a heart attack.

Suddenly, a hand shot out with alarming strength—strength that Reid _certainly_ would not have possessed under any normal circumstances—and Morgan felt something sharp enter his stomach. He stared downwards in horror at the tip of the tranquilizer dart lodged in his abdomen. Morgan cried out for help—he could already feel his knees growing weak as he fell to the ground, hard.

Morgan could hear commotion out in the hallway—why hadn't the SWAT team come back yet? Everything was going blurry—his eyes fell shut as if against his will—even noises were becoming muffled and indistinct. The last thing Morgan heard was the loud voice of his former friend echoing off the walls of the hallway.

"HEY, JACK! THE _REAL_ FEDS ARE HERE!"


	15. Chapter 15

**WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS POETRY THAT MIGHT BE DISTURBING FOR SOME READERS. IF YOU ARE ALLERGIC TO POORLY WRITTEN, NONSENSICAL POETRY, TURN BACK NOW. SAVE YOURSELF WHILE YOU CAN (actually, since you've gotten this far in the story, I'm going to assume that you've developed some sort of immunity to the poetry. I only had to include that disclaimer for legal reasons, mostly.) Anyways, I'm sorry it took me two weeks to update again. I've been getting so much homework lately that I've been thinking about submitting my fanfictions in place of my college creative writing assignments (if I just change the names around, no one will notice the difference, right?...right?) But then I would have to reveal my mental instability to the general masses...I'm not sure I'm prepared to do that. **

**Well, anyways. I hope you like the chapter! (And again, I'm really very sorry about the poetry. I hope you'll be able to recover.)**

_"An intelligent person can rationalize anything. A wise person doesn't try." –Jen Knox_

Morgan let out a moan.

The light from outside shone far too brightly on his eyes. He turned over, covered his head with his hands, and pressed his face into the pillow.

Why did the sheets smell like bleach?

Morgan sat up straight. He wasn't at home—he was in a hospital. He blinked confusedly and glanced around the room—it was empty. The door was closed. Morgan rubbed his head, trying in vain to remember what had happened to him. He lowered his hand to his stomach—there was a small puncture wound there, as if someone had given him a shot. Irritated, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the door. He opened it and peered outside.

"What are you _doing?"_

Morgan started, alarmed, as he saw a nurse sprinting towards him. "What? Sorry—I just—"

"Get back into bed!" Although her head barely came up to his chest, the nurse placed both hands firmly on Morgan's shoulders and began pushing him determinedly back into the room.

"Alright, alright—I'm _going, _sheesh—" He walked backwards to the bed and sat down. "Excuse me—could you tell me why I'm here?"

The nurse frowned at him. "A sedative overdose," she said. "You aren't supposed to be awake yet." She glanced at her watch. "You're supposed to be asleep for _two more hours." _

"I feel fine," Morgan said. "But I can't remember what happened."

"Of course you can't," she said, in a tone that was both reassuring and slightly patronizing. "It was a sedative overdose."

"Yes," Morgan said, with growing irritation, "I was hoping that somebody could tell me _why_ I was dosed with sedatives."

The nurse glanced at the door uneasily. "You were supposed to be asleep for two more hours," she said. "I don't want to impede your recovery."

"Listen," Morgan said. "Is there anyone out there? Anyone named Aaron Hotchner? Or David Rossi? Penelope Garcia?" He paused. "Desiree Morgan? Fran Morgan? Sarah Morgan?"

"If I let you have visitors," she said, "You might get excited."

"I'll be getting pretty excited in a few minutes if someone doesn't tell me what the hell's going on," Morgan snapped. He rubbed his head—the amnesia was so frustrating.

The nurse scowled at him. "Alright," she said. "I'll go tell them you're awake."

She returned several minutes later with a grim looking Hotch. He eyed Morgan nervously. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Morgan sighed. "I'm _fine, _Hotch," he said. "What happened?"

Hotch sat down in front of him. "How much do you remember?"

Morgan put his head in his hands, trying to think back. "Last I remember is interviewing Tommy Baker," he muttered. "Wait—I remember an argument with you." He paused. "We had an address, right?"

"Yes," Hotch said.

"Was it a trap?" Morgan asked.

"No," Hotch said.

Morgan stared at him. "What the hell _happened, _then?"

Hotch glanced briefly at the nurse—she cast one more concerned look Morgan's way before backing out of the room and closing the door. Hotch turned back towards Morgan. "We went to the location armed with sedatives," he said. "We couldn't differentiate between criminals and victims, and we needed to neutralize anyone who might make a disturbance. We knew they'd have an escape route—they were simply too organized not to."

Morgan nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I think I remember that."

"We went in and we were able to sedate four people—my team got Leonard Wilkins and Avery Toole, JJ and Blake found Robert Quincy, and Rossi's team got Jeanette Adams."

"And what happened to me?" Morgan asked, rubbing his stomach. "I'm assuming I shot myself with a sedative somehow? Got the gun facing the wrong way?"

Hotch didn't laugh. "You team found Reid in a room at the back of the building," he said. "You shot him with a sedative, but it was ineffective."

Morgan frowned. "What? Why?"

"Most likely because he'd just been given…that drug. Although the _effects_ of the drug probably last for hours, the _initial_ high can last anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes—sedatives probably don't work until that initial high wears off. You ordered the SWAT team not to shoot him again, because—"

"A second dose of the sedatives would have killed him," Morgan muttered, feeling a vague stirring of recollection.

"Right," Hotch said. "After a few minutes, Reid suddenly passed out—you told the SWAT team to go and help me. Soon after, Reid ran out of the room shouting—the SWAT team tried to go after him, but the noise had alerted the other members of what was going on. An older man ran into the hallway and started shooting. My team heard the commotion and ran to help—but as soon as we entered the hallway, all the lights went out. We had flashlights, but it was too chaotic—we lost track of the shooter, and we lost track of Reid."

"Well, shit," Morgan muttered. "Didn't JJ come to help you? What about Rossi?"

"Rossi and his team arrived shortly after mine. JJ's team ran into those two…" Hotch trailed off, a look of distaste appearing on his face.

"The twins?"

"Them," Hotch spat. "According to JJ, they ran past in the opposite direction and started pushing people down. Nobody could fire, because they were afraid of hitting each other. Besides, we told the SWAT team beforehand that anybody in the building could have been a victim—nobody wanted to shoot a pair of teenagers, especially since the sedative would probably have killed them."

"So what happened?" Morgan demanded. "They got away?"

"Some of them," Hotch muttered. "The initial four—Quincy, Adams, Wilkins, and Toole—were sedated. Once we finally got the lights back on, we found another man—Wilbur Douglas—standing in some sort of classroom, staring at a whiteboard. We took all five of them—and you—to the hospital. Everyone else had disappeared. We found the emergency exit, but by then it was too late. Anyone else who might have been in that building was long gone."

"You didn't find Reid?" Morgan asked incredulously. "But we shot him with a sedative—how far could he have gotten?"

"I don't know," Hotch muttered. "But it's not only that. Without the antidote, he could suffer all sorts of side effects—that's why tranquilizers are hardly ever used by police. We assumed that we would be able to give immediate medical care to anyone dosed with the sedative, but…" he trailed off.

"So what you're saying," Morgan said, slowly, "Is that the tranquilizer could kill him."

"It could," Hotch muttered. "At the very least, there will be side-effects. But it's twenty-four hours later and we haven't found any bodies. We're going to assume he's alive until we find evidence to the contrary."

"Assuming he's alive is different than knowing he's alive," Morgan snapped. "Why aren't we out there right now? We could—"

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of screaming coming from the hallway. Both Hotch and Morgan leapt to their feet. "Stay here," Hotch told Morgan fiercely. Morgan ignored him and followed him into the room across the hall—a woman stood in the doorway, screaming.

"What happened, Mrs. Quincy?" Hotch demanded. Moments later, a group of nurses ran past them into the room.

"They said—said he wouldn't be awake for another hour—I just took Bobby to the bathroom—I just came in here and there was b-blood everywhere, a-and…" she trailed off, staring at her husband in horror. Morgan peered over her shoulder—Robert Quincy was lying on the bed, his face pale, blood staining his white hospital gown red. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, dull and unmoving.

"He slit his neck," Hotch said, his tone one of horror. He suddenly ran out into the hallway and grabbed hold of one of the nurses walking past.

"Where's Dr. Cole?" he demanded urgently.

She looked around. "He's evaluating a patient," she said.

"Find him," Hotch said. "Tell him to put Jeanette Adams, Leonard Wilkins, Avery Toole, and Wilbur Douglas on suicide watch."

She stared at him. "But—shouldn't Dr. Cole decide—"

"Quickly!" Hotch snapped. "Before they wake up!" She hurried off, casting Hotch confused looks as she went.

Hotch and Morgan exchanged a worried look and then glanced back at the room with Robert. "I really hope that was an anomaly," Hotch muttered. "But something tells me it's not."

**O**

Reid turned over on his side and vomited.

The room was dark and the edges of his vision were blurry. He couldn't see where he was and he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. His heart was beating far too quickly, but his breathing had become heavy and labored—the sensation brought with it a weird sense of vertigo. After lying still for several moments, gasping for breath, he saw the swirling image of a face bending close to him.

"You bring the FBI into my first home," Jack said softly, "And now that I've invited you to my _second_ home, you puke all over the floor. That's not how guests behave, Dr. Reid."

Reid coughed weakly and said nothing.

"I really should've killed you," Jack mused. "I _did_ appreciate that little outburst of yours—I really did—but then you passed out in the middle of the road five minutes later. _Really, _Dr. Reid, what were you thinking?"

Reid didn't answer. He didn't think he had enough breath in his lungs to speak.

"I wanted to leave you there," Jack said. "But Michael instead on carrying you. 'We can't abandon Percy,' he kept saying. I, of course, had no idea what he was blathering on about—I wouldn't have minded leaving _both_ of you behind, to be perfectly honest—but he kept up surprisingly well, so there wasn't much I could do about it. You ought to thank him, Dr. Reid."

Reid felt like he was going to throw up again. Instead, he tried to focus on Jack's face, hoping to somehow ground himself in reality. A wide grin was stretched across his lips—instead of his usual scowl, Jack looked oddly cheerful. "Where's John?" Reid whispered, his voice feeble and breathless. He started coughing again.

Jack started to laugh. "Well that's the question of the day, isn't it?" he asked. "In fact, a better question would be—where is _everyone?"_

Reid stared at him. "Everyone is gone?" he asked breathlessly.

"Except Michael, of course," Jack scoffed. "And Remy. Looks like your team got to the rest of them. Although…" he trailed off and turned around. A dim light flickered from across the room. _A television._

"Their pictures are still up there," Jack muttered.

Reid squinted at the television. "Who?"

"The twins," he muttered. "Their pictures are up there, along with yours." There was a pause. "But no Wilbur. No Leonard or Robert or Avery." He was silent for some time. "No Jeanette." His voice darkened for the first time. "Just you and Michael and those twins."

"No Remy?" Reid muttered.

"She was never reported missing," Jack muttered dismissively. "Neither were John and I."

"What about the drug?" Reid asked. Pain seared down his throat like a knife. "The laboratory is gone—we can't make it anymore—"

"Relax," Jack said, laughing. "Did you think I wouldn't have a backup plan? I've been planning this ever since we founded the place—expecting it, even, since you showed up…" he trailed off. "I have all the ingredients here," he muttered. "We'll need more, eventually—but we'll get to that later." They stood in silence for a long time, gazing at the television. Reid's vision was still too blurry to make out the images.

"But we'll start again," Jack said suddenly. "We can find new test subjects. We needed to start afresh, anyways. John isn't here anymore." Reid started coughing again—this time, the attack was so bad he thought he might asphyxiate. He leaned over the sideways, clutching the bed posts, his chest heaving with effort. The lack of oxygen made him lightheaded and dizzy.

"I'll even let you help me, Dr. Reid," Jack muttered. "You're not my first choice, sure, but I could do worse."

Reid just laid on his side, bright sparks dancing in front of his vision. The bright colors made the vertigo worse—the whole room seemed to be spinning in a way that was bewildering, nauseating, terrifying.

"Assuming you don't die, of course," Jack said. Then he laughed once, briefly, and walked out of the room.

**O**

"Was the body concealed?" Hotch demanded. He and Blake walked side by side with the sheriff on the way to the dump site. _It isn't Reid, _he told himself. _Forty to fifty year old man. Reid's tall and thin, sure, but he doesn't look forty or fifty. Not even close. _Still, Hotch couldn't help the nauseating jolts of panic twisting in his stomach. He needed to see the body for himself. He quickened his pace.

"Out in the open," the officer replied. "In fact, it's like the killer _wanted_ you to see it. On display and everything."

They arrived at the scene. A group of forensic analysts stood in a cluster several feet away—Hotch pushed past them and came to stand directly in front of the body.

He let out a sigh of relief—it wasn't Reid. _Stupid, _he chastised himself. _Of course it's not Reid. _The victim had a long, deep gash in his neck, and blood all over his chest and hands.

One of the forensic analysts approached him. "Looks like the killer got him from behind," he said. "Slitting the throat is an effective way to kill somebody—but this was done very crudely. It only partially severed the windpipe. Not a nice way to die.

"Could you identify the victim?" Blake asked.

"It wasn't difficult," the analyst replied. "Jonathon Weber. _Doctor _Jonathon Weber, actually."

"Great," Hotch muttered, already pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing the number. He held it up to his ear. "Garcia?"

Her shrill voice exploded out of the phone. "_Why_ has nobody updated me on Derek?"

"What?" Hotch asked, holding the phone several inches away from his ear. "Look, Garcia—not now—we've got—"

"I have not heard any news in four and a half hours," she insisted hysterically. _"Four. And a half. Hours."_

"I'm sure that—"

"Is _anyone_ at the hospital with him?" she continued. "_I_ haven't even been able to visit him yet, because _I_ had to stay up all night researching—"

"Garcia, I understand your frustration, but—

"I can't get in touch with anyone," she snapped. "JJ and Rossi are here—god knows where Blake is, _she _won't answer her phone—"

"Blake is with _me_, Garcia—and Morgan is _fine, _he's probably just taking a nap—"

"He promised to call me _every four hours._ It has been four hours and twenty-seven minutes, Hotch. _Four hours and twenty-seven minutes."_

"Garcia!" Hotch snapped. "There are _doctors _with him—"

"I read about those tranquilizers on the internet, you know," Garcia said. "They're _ultra_ dangerous. They can cause respiratory problems—nausea—seizures—"

"Okay, Garcia," Hotch hissed. "How about this. If you do this for me—this _one_ thing for me—then you can go visit Morgan for an hour. Alright?"

"_Oh_, really?" Garcia asked, the worry in her voice replaced by jubilation. "Well _alright, _then—what is it you need, boss-man?"

Hotch sighed. "Get me anything you can on a man named Jonathon Weber. They should have sent you the fingerprint—"

"Got it," Garcia said, before Hotch had time to finish his sentence. "Dr. John Weber, forty-nine years old. Ooh, fancy—he was a professor at Yale University, then he moved to DC and taught at Georgetown for a few years. He specialized in biochemistry. He stopped teaching about ten years ago, but he's technically still employed there as a researcher."

Hotch bent down and examined him closely. "He would've had access to chemicals," he muttered suddenly. "That's how they've been making the drugs…." he trailed off.

"Anything else, sir?" Garcia asked, sounding slightly impatient.

"Not yet," Hotch muttered. "Just send me his file. Then go visit Morgan. For _one hour."_

"On it, sir!"

Hotch pocketed the phone and bent down close to the body. "So, Dr. Weber," he muttered. "Who would want to kill you?"

"Agent Hotchner!" A different analyst approached him anxiously. "There's something else you should know."

"What's that?" Blake asked.

The analyst held out a plastic bag—inside it was a piece of paper, with a note scrawled in hurried, frantic handwriting. "It was stuck in his front pocket," the analyst told them, handing Hotch the note.

"What is it?" Blake asked, peering over his shoulder to see.

Hotch just shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.

"What?" Blake asked. "It's not…"

"Yes," Hotch muttered, letting out a long sigh. "Yes, it is." He held up the note and started to read.

_I guess you'll probably be mad,  
Cuz what we did was kinda bad.  
But we can change. Just wait and see!  
We're better now, you must agree.  
We really want to gain your trust  
And cure your strange dislike for us.  
For our primary antidote  
We left a present (and this note!)  
We hope our gesture will ring true  
Cuz it was wicked hard to do.  
We waited till he fell asleep  
Then took a blade and stuck it deep  
Into his neck—he tried to scream!  
(I think we woke him from a dream.)  
But anyways, the red stuff flowed  
Just everywhere (it stained our clothes.)  
And then we laughed, because we knew  
Deep down, we did it all for you.  
And then we left him in the park  
(By that time, it was nearly dark.)  
Where are we now? Well, I don't know.  
We lost ourselves so long ago.  
As for our friends—they always bleed.  
(Like Charlie, John, and Doctor Reid.)  
But we're still glad, despite our strife.  
Cuz without joy—what, then, is life?  
We laughed and laughed till something broke.  
So don't be mad! It's all a joke._


End file.
